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The Pretty Ways 
Providence 


o 


By 

MARK GUY PEARSE 

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CINCINNATI: JENNINGS AND GRAHAM 
NEW YORK: EATON AND MAINS 


LiBHARV of CONGRESS 
Two.CoDies Received 

WAV 6 1906 

. Copyright Entry 
CLASS f <3. 'XXr, No. 

/ 4/. ^ 7 V C 

COPY B. 


CORYRIGHT, 1906, BY 
Jennings & Graham 


CONTENTS. 


Pagb 

The Pretty Ways o’ Providence, - 5 

Man’el Hodge’s Courtship, - - 23 

The Smuggler, 69 

The Prayers of the Congregation, 93 

The Hand on the Lever, - - - 118 

The Turf Stealer, - - . - 131 

“Terrible Expensive,” ... - 141 

Old Apollos, 167 

Love’s Little Humors, - - - - 183 

A Bit of Shamrock, - - - - 205 

Dick Brimacombe’s Wedding, - - 227 

The Punch and Judy Man, - - 249 

Down in the Country, - - - 259 



THE PRETTY WAYS O’ 


PROVIDENCE. 



The Pretty Ways o’ Providence. 


I. 

They were an old couple when I knew 
them. It was from him that I heard the 
story. To her the years had brought no added 
gift of speech; a look, a smile, a breath suf- 
ficed for assent, or dissent, or surprise, as she 
sat knitting by the fireside. But he with the 
years grew garrulous — a little merry-hearted 
man with twinkling eyes, the very embodi- 
ment of good humor. 

The story was of years ago when she was 
Nancy Penrose, and he was Henry Craze — he 
the servant man at a farm some three miles 
from the church-town, and she housekeeper to 
an old farmer living a mile nearer to the vil- 
lage, where stood the church and a score of 
clustering cottages. No words can tell the 
story half as well as Uncle Henny’s own. 

“Now to my thinking, you know, there is 

7 


The Pretty Ways o* Providence, 

nothing in the round world so pretty as the 
ways o’ Providence. I ’m not a-going to run 
down all the pretty things to prove it. I do n’t 
like that, not a bit — a-stripping all the other 
gooseberries off the bush to make believe there 
is only one in the world. Bless ’ee, I ’ve found 
little gooseberries so sweet as big ones — 
’specially when I could n’t get any others.” 

Old Uncle Henny chuckled with good 
humor, his little eyes almost shut up out of 
sight by the wrinkles that curved around them 
as he smiled. 

^^No; there it is — the prettiest thing in the 
world, and none the less because there ’s such 
lots of pretty things. I do agree, certainly, 
that stars and flowers is just so pretty as God 
Almighty could think of. And I like to put 
them together, stars and flowers. Flowers, to 
my mind, is a sort of stars ’pon earth, and stars 
is a sort of flowers in heaven. Stars is the 
flowers of the night, just like flowers is the 
stars of^he day. Why, I ’ve seen an old furze 
bush blaze out with gold fit for the celestial 
city, a-filling the air with that sweet warm 


The Pretty Ways o* Providence, 

scent that I Ve a-laughed for the joy of living 
to smell it. A sunset from the cliffs, and a 
summer haze ’pon the moors is things that 
heaven itself is n’t going for to beat. But for 
all that, you can’t put them alongside of they 
pretty ways o’ Providence.” 

Then Uncle Henny laughed, his eyes 
twinkling as if some new thought occurred to 
him. He stretched out his hand and laid it 
on my knee, then pointed across to the chim- 
ney-corner where Nancy sat knitting. She, 
wondering at the pause in her husband’s flow 
of speech, caught sight of the finger, and then 
of the sly look on her husband’s face. 

^^There ’s another thing, now, that if you 
do come to look at it, you could set alongside 
the flowers and stars, and neither the pretty 
cheeks of her nor the dear eyes of her would 
be put to the leastest little bit o’ shame.”. 

She turned with a smile to me, a look 
which meant that I was to make allowances 
for her Henny’s ways — it was no good saying 
anything. 

‘^But for all that, I do n’t put Nancy first 

9 


The Pretty Ways o* Providence, 

of all. And I do n’t believe she is jealous, 
bless her! Of all things that ever w^as or ever 
will be, the prettiest to my thinking is they 
ways 0^ Providence, ’T is wonderful! I’ve 
thought about it hundreds of times, and ar- 
gued it out along with myself, and I always 
say it, and I always will, there is n’t nothing to 
set alongside o’ that. I do n’t exactly blame 
anybody for not seeing it the same as I do, but 
I do wonder that they can help it. Of course, 
we ’ve all got our own way of seeing, and 
’t is n’t given to any one man to see everything. 
Thoughts is things that is allowanced out 
amongst us — one got one set, and another got 
another, the same as our teeth and our tastes. 
But I am fine and glad that I have a-got the set 
that can see this. Whether ’t is church or 
chapel, when they begin to thank the Lord for 
^creation, preservation, and all the blessings of 
this life,’ I always feel that there ’s something 
left out, and I always put it in on my own ac- 
count — and for they pretty ways o^ Providence, 
“Now, look at it, there’s Nancy and me 
come together — that is wonderful, if you like. 


lO 


The Pretty Ways o* Providence. 

It do take away my breath with amazement 
for to think about it. She and me. Of course, 
you see in a minute the wonderfulness of it, 
do n’t you?” 

Uncle Henny turned to me. I could but 
answer doubtfully: 

“Well, where is the wonder?” 

“Aw dear, to be sure; I did think you 
would see that in a minute.” 

He sat back in his chair, almost grieved 
for a minute or two. Then drew himself up 
again and went on in a tone that was almost a 
protest against my dullness of vision. 

“Why, what I can’t get over is this: why 
was n’t I born back there in they old days 
along with Nebuchadnezzar, and Methu- 
selah, and Abednego, and Melchizedek?” 

Uncle Henny lumped them together as if 
they all lived at the same time, if not, indeed, 
under the same roof. 

“Of course I might. Or there was they 
days that I ’ve heard tell of, when the old 
Britons went about in suits of paint, all red, 
and white, and blue, like a flag to the stern 


II 


The Pretty Ways o* Providence. 

of a man-o’-war. To think of it! Why 
was n’t I born back there along with they? 
And she, bless her, she might have come along 
in a thousand years’ time, — and where should 
I have been then, and what should I have 
done then, I should like to know. Aw dear! 
my blood do run cold to think of it! There ’s 
a wonder, if you mind to. If it was for noth- 
ing but that, the first prize for pretty things 
must go to they ways o’ Providence. There ’s 
nothing to set alongside o’ that.” 

“Ah! I begin to see it now,” I ventured to 
remark, in hope of soothing the old man. 

Be gin to? And that ’s all anybody can 
ever hope for to do with a wonder like this. 
There ’s no ending to it. It do stretch away 
backward and forward, upward and down- 
ward, for ever and ever. Wonderful, won- 
derful!” 

Uncle Henny staid for a moment, as if 
almost oppressed by the weight of it. 

“Well, talk about thousands to one, it was 
millions to one that she and me should ever 
have come together. You think now. Why 
12 


The Pretty Ways o* Providence, 

was n’t she living over there in furrin’ parts — 
out in America, somewhere — and me over in 
Palestine or China? I ’ve looked it out on the 
map to see how far away we might have been, 
and never a chance of coming together, she 
and me. Aw, they pretty ways o’ Provi- 
dence!” 

Nancy lifted her eyes and looked at me 
with half an apology, fearing that a matter so 
personal would fail to have any interest for 
me. I nodded and smiled. Uncle Henny 
might go on as long as he liked — I could lis- 
ten. She looked a little ^‘Thank you,” and 
went on with her knitting. 

‘^And all that is only a sort of beginning. 
I never think about it but I can see something 
new — another side to the wonder of it. I sit 
here a-looking upon her, the dear, and I say to 
myself, ^Now, why was n’t she a empress or 
a queen?’ That’s what I want to know. 
Aw, my dear life: I think I can s6e her, all 
dressed up so fine, a golden crown upon her 
head, and the robes about her shoulders, and 
the lords and ladies all standing around her. 

13 


The Pretty Ways o' Providence, 

Aw dear, dear! what would poor old Henny 
Craze have done then? Never so much as 
able to get in for to look upon her! To think 
of them sweet ways o’ Providence that made 
she so pretty a maid in a cap and gown, 
a-milking of the cows, and a-making of the 
butter, just a-waiting till I come along for 
to find her. ’T is wonderful, wonderful ! 
There ’s nothing like it — they pretty ways o’ 
Providence.” 


11 . 

“Well, that’s only the beginning of it 
still. Why, she and me might have been all 
the days of our life here in the same parish, 
and the farms a’most touching each other, and 
yet we might never so much have a-come to- 
gether for all that. It was a Watch-night 
service that did it. I believe I ’ve read how 
that it was made in Germany. Well, all I can 
say is, that there ’s lots of things made in Ger- 
many that are not half so good as that. Provi- 


The Pretty Ways o* Providence, 

dence knew what He was a-doing when they 
were first put on. I dare say they folks over 
there never thought it was anything more than 
a sort o’ pious way to end the old year and be- 
gin the new, and never fancied that it was a 
part o’ they pretty ways for bringing us to- 
gether. 

“Well, we was both of us up thirty years of 
age, and had never so much as met. You 
see, Nancy could only get out in the morning 
on a Sunday; and I had to see to the farm 
stock and things, so that I could only get away 
in the evening. To think I was only a mile 
off, and never so much as knew that she was 
in the world! And there was me a-going 
about all day a’most in sight of her window, 
the dear, and she never so much as knowing 
the name that was to be her own.” 

Nancy lifted her eyes and looked at her 
husband, a look that told how deeply she 
shared in the wonder, though she said so 
little. 

“So you see, being all as it was, the Watch 
Night was the only chance of our coming 

15 


The Pretty Ways Providence, 

together. To think of it, she and me a-sitting 
so close together, she and me a-singing the 
same hymns, and kneeling both side by side, 
and for all that she was just so far off as if I 
was up in the North Pole, where ’t is all frost, 
and she was down in the South Pole, where I 
s’pose ’tis all sunshine. Bless her! it always 
was sunshine where Nancy Penrose was — 
that I do know, anyhow — and is still.” 

Nancy bent over the stitches, but I think it 
was rather to hide a blush than to count them. 
Then Uncle Henny grew more excited. 

‘‘That night at twelve o’clock the hour had 
come. Providence had a-timed it all so pretty 
as could be. I had come out o’ the service, 
and was setting out for a brisk walk home, 
when I saw her a dozen yards ahead o’ me, 
walking as fast as I was. It was a sharp, 
frosty night, that set the stars a-shining and 
twinkling, a sort of winking at each other 
like as if they knew what was up. There ’s 
wonders in the stars, if you come for to think 
about it. They was all wide awake and 
watching that night. I ’m certain sure of that, 
i6 


The Pretty W ays o* Providence. 

for there was something on that was worth 
their while. 

“Well, I was walking along like as if there 
was never a maid in all the world, my mind 
taken up with the service and thoughts about 
the new year. You know the road — how it 
comes down the hill for quarter of a mile or 
so after you come out of the church-town, 
then there ’s a bridge across the stream, where 
the trees are. ’T is a lonely place at the best 
of times, and to-night was quite dark. 
There ’s a stile there to the right hand that 
leads in over the fields and cuts off a brave bit 
of the road. I had forgotten all about her, 
the dear, never thinking but what she had 
turned into one of the cottages and was safe 
enough at home by this time. The night was 
still — never so much as a breath of wind to 
stir the branches of the trees. 

“All of a sudden I heard a drunken fel- 
low’s brutal speech and then a scream. I ran 
on as fast as I could, and in the darkness I 
could just make out a great big hulking rascal, 
hiccoughing between his oaths, and swearing 

17 


2 


The Pretty Ways o’ Providence. 

that she should not cross the stile unless she 
gave him a kiss. He had taken hold of her 
with one hand, and was putting the other 
around her waist. 

“Aw, they pretty ways o’ Providence ! For 
I was no sooner there than she dragged herself 
away from the fellow and came right up to 
my side, gasping and trembling all over. 

“ ^Stand back!’ I says to the rascal, giving 
him a shove. Of course, in a minute he made 
for me. 

“ ‘Get over the stile so quick as you can,’ 
I whispered to her; ‘I’ll keep this fellow 
from touching you anyhow.’ 

“I was never much of a fighting man, and 
he was a great big chap who could have fin- 
ished me with one blow. He come stagger- 
ing on with so many oaths as his mouth would 
hold. I can not help laughing to think of it, 
for as he come with a rush I stepped to one 
side, and as he went by I gave him a shove 
with all the strength that was in me. Aw, they 
pretty ways o’ Providence! — down he went, 
clean down the bank, head-first in the bram- 

i8 


The Pretty Ways Providence. 

bles and furze bushes. I knew that it would 
take him long enough to pick hisself up again, 
so I slipped over the stile along by her side. 
But there! what with she a-waiting for me to 
say something and me a-waiting for her to 
begin, between the two of us there was n’t so 
much as a word until we come to the gate of 
the farm-house where she lived. Then she 
stopped a minute. 

‘‘ ‘Thank you,’ says she, a-looking up at 
me, the starlight a-shining in the pretty eyes 
of her. 

“ ‘You are welcome,’ says I, thinking how 
much I would like to do it for her over 
again. 

“ ‘Good night,’ says she, a-turning in to 
the gate. 

“ ‘Good-night,’ says I, a-going on my way. 

“ ‘Well,’ says I to myself, ‘I never did 
think much about marrying, but if I ever did 
have a wife, I should think myself lucky to 
have anything so pretty-looking and so pretty- 
spoken as that.’ 

“You would hardly believe it, but there! if 

19 


The Pretty Ways o* Providence, 

they pretty ways o’ Providence did n’t give me 
a chance of finding out before long that she 
was there to be had if only a man knew how. 
Bless her, the dear! she never told me, but I 
should n’t wonder a bit — it would only be fair 
play — if they pretty ways o’ Providence did n’t 
give her a chance of finding out so much 
about me. 

‘Well, it come along to the next Watch- 
night service, and there was she and me 
again. I made sure of that so soon as I got 
in the place. When it was done I thought, of 
course, that there might be another of them 
drunken chaps about. I did not exactly want 
’em, but I did sort of wish for one — just one; 
so I walked up so bold as a lion. 

“ ‘Beautiful night!’ says I. 

“ ‘Beautiful!’ says she. 

“And there, what with my a-thinking what 
to say that was pretty enough for her to hear, 
I never so much as said a word. When we 
come to the gate I made so bold as to hold 
forth my hand. She gave me hers, and I 
thought I should like to hold it forever. 


20 


The Pretty Ways Providence, 

‘I do wish you a happy New-Year,’ 
says I. 

“ Thank you,’ says she ; and I thought I 
never heard such pretty music in my life. 
wish you the same,’ says she. Then she was 
gone. 

‘Well, I thought I would try and write 
her a letter, but I did n’t. ‘It is impudence of 
’ee to think of it,’ says I to myself — ‘downright 
brazen impudence, you to set yourself along- 
side anything like she is!’ But, for all that, I 
did think it was a pity they never thought of 
putting up them Watch-night services once a 
week. 

“But they pretty ways o’ Providence 
was n’t going wrong — no, they was leading 
right up so straight as a line. It is wonder- 
ful — wonderful 1 

“The next Watch Night come round at 
last — for all it was like two years a-coming 
round that time — and so soon as we come out 
I was up alongside of her in a minute. The 
moon was full and there was n’t so much as a 
cloud in the sky, so that I could see her sweet 


21 


The Pretty Ways o* Providence, 

pretty face. We went along together, but 
never a word could I get out. When a man 
have n’t got nothing particular to say, his 
words will come with a rush, like a hailstorm ; 
but only let him have something particular 
upon his mind, and there is no such awkward 
and tongue-tied creature upon the face of the 
earth. For all my heart was telling me to 
speak up, I could not so much as find a thing 
to say. We had come to the gate a’most be- 
fore I knew we were over the stile. 

‘^It was she, the dear of her, that put forth 
her hand that time. Then with the feel of it I 
sort of woke up. I took it so tight as ever I 
could. The moonlight was shining down 
upon us, and there was me a-shuffiing first one 
foot and then another, so clumsy as could be, 
and a’most before I knew it I out with it: 

Shall us?^ says I. 

^‘She bent down her pretty head, and all so 
faint as the chirrupin’ of a little bird, says she: 

^Lev us/ says she. 

“Aw, they pretty ways o’ Providence! 
There ’s nothing to set alongside of them.” 


22 


MAN’EL HODGE’S 


COURTSHIP. 



I 


Man’el Hodge’s Courtship. 


I. 


Man’el Hodge — he was christened Em- 
manuel — ^was now forty years of age, and 
began to think that it was time to get settled 
in life, which meant that to his other worldly 
possessions he should add a wife. It took 
him at least a year to come to any well-defined 
opinion on the subject. 

It was Tamson Gundry who first suggested 
it, and she had half a dozen marriageable 
daughters of her own at home. 

Man’el was coming slowly along the field 
path near to his house when Mrs. Gundry 
overtook him. 

“Good-mornin’, Man’el,” she began. 

“Aw, good-mornin’, Mrs. Gundry,” said 
Man’el, turning towards her. 

“Which way are you a-going, then?” she 
asked, thinking she would walk that way too. 

25 


Mangel Hodge^s Courtship, 

‘‘I be n’t going nowhere,” replied Man’el. 

“But you must be going somewhere, 
Man’el,” laughed Mrs. Gundry, who was a 
quick-witted woman, as all the parish knew. 

“No,” said Man’el, in his slow and melan- 
choly way, “I ’m coming back from where I 
been to.” 

There was a pause. Then Mrs. Gundry 
began again. 

“Man’el, you got a tidy little place of it 
here.” 

“Iss, Mrs. Gundry; might be worse, to be 
sure.” 

“A good house and pretty garden.” 

“Well, if you do come to think about it, I 
suppose it is.” And Man’el looked as if it 
had never occurred to him before. 

“And your own and all — no rent nor 
nothing.” 

“Iss, ’tis my own, I believe.” Man’el 
never seemed to be quite sure of anything. 

“And these here three meadows — ^you ’m 
quite a landowner.” 

“Well, iss, I s’pose, so far as it goes — 
26 


Mangel Hodge^s Courtship, 

might be more of it, though,” said Man’el, 
scratching his head. 

“And so good a flock of sheep as anybody 
could wish for to see.” 

“Well, iss — but there might be more of 
they too, and no harm done.” 

There was another pause. Then Mrs. 
Gundry turned from leaning on the gate and 
looked him full in the face. 

“And you ’re a tidy man, Man’el, when 
you mind to — Sundays and berrin’s and fair 
days — when you ’re dressed up.” 

“Well, iss, I s’pose there ’s better, and I 
s’pose there ’s worse,” and a ghost of a smile 
flickered about his lips. 

“Well, Man’el, I tell ’ee, there ’s one thing 
you do want for to set ’ee up.” 

“What’s that, then, Mrs. Gundry?” 

“Why, a wifer 

“To be sure,” said Man’el, and he 
scratched his head again, it helped him to 
collect his wits. “But I never thought about 
it — dear, dear — a wifeT' 

“Well, good morning, Man’el.” 

27 


Mangel Hodge's Courtship, 

“Good morning, Mrs. Gundry.” 

Mrs. Gundry had gone some fifty yards 
when she turned and called back: “You think 
about it, Man’el.” 

“Iss, I will; good morning.” 

One has seen beside the shore of a lake, a 
birch-tree bending down to find itself reflected 
in the still waters below, yet rooted in the cleft 
of a rock where seemed no soil, no nourish- 
ment, no possibility of life. Such was the 
unpromising ground into which Tamson 
Gundry’s suggestion had fallen, yet there, too, 
had come the unfolding of the seed and its 
growth, until Man’el could see but one thing 
whichever way he looked. All that he had 
was undone for want of a wife. House and 
land and flock of sheep and Sunday attire 
seemed less than nothing without a wife. 

But it was one thing to come to the start- 
ing-point of a great decision, and quite an- 
other to begin to act upon it. 

“Take a wife?” mused Man’el. “ ’T is 
aggravatin’ talk, terrible aggravatin’ — like as 
if they grow’d upon the hedge like black- 
28 


Mangel Hodge^s Courtship, 

berries to be had for the pickin’ ! ’T is the 
terriblest job I ever come for to think about,” 
and Man’el perspired at thought of so tre- 
mendous an undertaking. 

Then it was that he turned in his perplex- 
ity to old Zacchy Tregeare, a man of experi- 
ence in these things, whose three wives lay 
amicably together in the same grave, their 
names duly inscribed on the same tombstone. 
And Zacchy had observed with some satisfac- 
tion that there was room on the stone for yet 
another name in addition to his own; not 
seriously observed it, but it had occurred to 
him while standing at a neighbor’s funeral. 

It was one evening when the day’s work 
was done that the pupil made his way to the 
professor. 

‘^Zacchy,” began Man’el, ’ve come for 
to see ’ee.” 

‘‘Glad to see ’ee, Man’el,” puffed Zacchy, 
as he lit his pipe; “sit down, will ’ee?” 

“ ’T is serious, Zacchy,” said Man’el, pok- 
ing his stick into the turf on the hearth. 

“To be sure,” grunted Zacchy, seating 
29 


Mangel Hodge^s Courtship » 

himself in the chair and leaning back in the 
attitude of a lawyer for whose opinion a 
client waits. 

“ ’T is about a woman.” 

‘‘Aw, who is it, then?” and Zacchy put his 
head on one side and half closed his eyes. 

“You see you Ve a-had experience.” 

“Buried three of ’em,” grunted Zacchy. 

“However did ’ee manage it?” said 
Man’el, lifting his eyes to the master whose 
art he so admired. 

“Manage it! Well, it don’t want no 
managing when they ’re dead, poor dears.” 

“No, no; I mean to the beginning.” 

“Aw; to the beginning. Well, you’ve 
a-got to marry ’em first of all — one to a time, 
of course.” 

“Iss, of course; but before marryin’?” 

“Why, you ’ve a-got for to court ’em.” 

“That ’s terrible hard work, I s’pose,” 
sighed Man’el. 

“Not if you do understand it.” 

“But if you do n’t?” 

“Well, then you can’t, I suppose; ’t is a 

. 30 


Mangel Hodge^s Courtship, 

thing that do want understanding, to be 
sure.” 

“Could ’ee teach anybody, Zacchy, seeing 
you Ve a-had so much experience?” 

“Well, maybe I might try, Man’el; iss, I 
might try.” 

“Do ’ee, then,” and Man’el poked his stick 
into the turf again. 

Then Zacchy sat up and leaned on the 
arms of the chair as if ready for business. 

“Have ’ee got anybody in your mind?” 

“No, not particular,” said Man’el. 

“Dear, dear,” puffed Zacchy: “you ’m a 
terrible long way off yet.” 

“Women folks be like a passle o’ sheep to 
me,” said Man’el; “I can’t never tell one 
from another.” 

“To be sure! Well, well!” and Zacchy’s 
tone was one of amusement. “Why, there 
never was any two of ’em alike if you only got 
the understandin’ — no two of ’em alike.” 
And Zacchy’s thoughts wandered over the 
years of his experience. 

“There ’s Tamson Gundry’s daughters, 

31 


Mangel Hodge^s Courtship, 

they might be one, iss, the whole lot of ’em 
might be one and the same maid for all I can 
see,” and Man’el sighed. “If I spoke to one 
this evening I should not know which one of 
’em it was to-morrow.” 

“Aw, dear,” said Zacchy, while a smile 
circled his lips but did not betray itself in his 
tone, “that would be a terrible job to go 
courtin’ six maids to once, and thinkin’ all the 
time it was only one.” 

“Terrible,” groaned Man’el, prodding the 
turf more vigorously. 

“Well, there ’s a cure for that, I reckon,” 
said Zacchy, drawing the stem of his church- 
warden from his mouth and puffing a cloud 
of smoke. 

“Do ’ee think so, Zacchy?” 

“The moral of it, so to speak, is this here, 
go where there is only one — only one — and 
then you can’t mistake.” 

“Iss,” said Man’el, as if that did not 
avail him much unless the one could be 
found. 

“Can’t ’ee think of one all by herself, 

32 


Mangel Hodge^s Courtship. 

Man’el, just one for to begin with? Come 
now, do ’ee try.” 

“They ’m all alike to me,” sighed Man’el, 
“ ’zackly alike.” 

Here was a deadlock, and the lesson 
seemed ended, when Man’el began again: 

“I ’ve set my heart ’pon it, Zacchy, — can’t 
’ee think of nothing?” 

“ ’T is melancholy,” said Zacchy, thinking 
how easily he could have managed it. 

“Iss, and a comfortable little place of my 
own and all,” said Man’el; “you would think 
there might be one woman, somewhere, 
would n’t ’ee?” 

“There ’s lots,” grunted Zacchy. 

“But I only want one/' gasped Man’el, and 
he wiped his head in a fright at the host that 
seemed to rise up and cluster about him at 
Zacchy’s words. “Can’t ’ee think of one?" 

“Well, Man’el, there ’s no knowing what I 
might do if I give my mind to it.” 

“Thank ’ee, Zacchy,” said Man’el in a tone 
of much relief as he rose to go. “I ’m very 
much obliged to ’ee. Good-night.” 

3 33 


Man el Hodge^s Courtship. 

So ended the first lesson, and Man’el went 
on his way to his cottage. ‘‘It do seem a 
terrible job,” he sighed, “and yet to think 
’most everybody can manage it somehow.” 


11 . 

It was a few days after when Man’el was 
busy scraping the steaming carcass of a pig 
that Zacchy came upon him. 

“Aw, Man’el, my dear man, if you did but 
understand! Such chances as you do throw 
away for want of understandin’ 1” 

“What is it!” cried Man’el, looking up, 
frightened, and wondering what he had done. 

''Hog's puddensT grunted Zacchy, “that ’ll 
fetch ’em. There is n’t a bait for a woman 
that do come near to hog’s puddens, not in 
my experience.” 

“And you’re terribly experienced, too, 
Zacchy. How do ’ee use it?” And Man’el 
asked, as if doubtful whether it was to be 
taken inwardly or to be rubbed in as a lotion. 
34 


Mangel Hodge^s Courtship, 

“Aw, dear, dear,” groaned the professor 
of the most delicate of arts. “Can’t you see? 
For a present, to be sure; that ’s how I always 
began with them, and it never failed, not once. 
Wrapped up in a white cloth, and be sure ’t is 
clean — women have got eyes like a hawk for 
so much as a speck of dirt. Then you lay it 
in a basket all so neat and pretty as can be, 
and you put in alongside a bit of Boy’s Love 
and a few Sweet Williamses, and a little note 
pinned to the cloth with your name upon it — 
Zachariah. Be sure to put your name writ 
out full length ; ’t is terrible solemn and im- 
pressive-like as if you meant it, and you got 
to be fine and careful about the spellin’, which 
is the advantage of Scripture names, ’cause 
you can copy it out of the Bible — with 
Zachariah Tregeare^s Compliments/^ 

“Aw, my dear life,” groaned Man’el, “ t’ is 
terrible difficult, and when you do n’t know 
who to send them to and all.” 

“Iss, ’t is the fetchinest thing if you only 
do it right,” Zacchy went on, heedless of the 
interruption, “and ’t is a pretty gift, too, if you 
35 


Mangel Hodge's Courtship, 

come for to think about it, is flowers and 
hog’s puddens; something delicate upon top 
like a dream, so to speak, and something solid 
and substantial underneath. There ’s a moral 
to it, and what I do call a emblem of the 
affections.” 

^‘But I can’t think of nobody,” said Man’el, 
as he bent over his work. 

^Well, I ’ve a-gived my mind to it,” said 
the professor. 

Man’el looked up and waited. But 
Zacchy felt that a prolonged pause would add 
impressiveness to his words and lend a sense 
of greatness to his efforts. 

^Who is it, then?” said Man’el at last. 

‘T ’ve been over all the parish in my mind 
for to find a likely missus for ’ee, Man’el.” 

“But you have not a-spoke to anybody, 
have ’ee?” gasped Man’el. 

“What are’ ee thinking about, stupid?” 

“I didn’t know,” said Man’el; “you had 
so much experience.” 

“Well, I was thinking there was Miss 
Susan Kynance would suit ’ee.” 

36 


Mangel Hodge^s Courtship, 

“She’s dreadful old, isn’t she?” sighed 
Man’el, in a disappointed tone. 

“Not as old as you be, I believe,” sniffed 
Zacchy. 

Man’el started. Somehow it never oc- 
curred to him that he was in any sense old, 
whatever other people might be. 

“Well, to be sure! I s’pose she isn’t, 
neither, but she do look it.” 

“So do you, Man’el, only you can’t see it. 
Better a steady and thrifty female minding 
her work than a flighty maid that is all over 
the place ; or ’t is so to my thinking, anyhow,” 
and Zacchy spoke as one whose superior judg- 
ment had been questioned. 

“Iss, Zacchy, of course, of course; what 
with the cows to milk and the butter to make, 
and the fowls to feed, and the victuals to cook, 
and the pigs to see to, and a man to look after, 
it would take her all her time, would n’t it?” 

“She ’s a thrifty woman and have put by 
a bravish lump, too.” 

“Well, Miss Susan is a woman I do re- 
spect,” said Man’el. 


37 


Mangel Hodge's Courtship. 

‘‘Respect,” cried Zacchy with a snort — 
“what ’s the good of that! You Ve got to love 
her or nothin’.” 

“Aw,” said Man’el, hopelessly. 

“Iss, ’t is love or nothin’.” 

“How do you know when you got it, then, 
Zacchy?” 

“Know?” cried Zacchy, “know! How do 
you know when you got a ragin’ fever upon 
’ee consumin’ your vitals day and night?” 

Man’el stopped and gasped. “It is n’t 
like that, is it?” 

“You ’ll know right enough when you got 
it, and so will everybody else, for all you think 
you ’re keepin’ it all to yourself.” 

Poor Man’el was alarmed. “Do it affect 
your appetite, Zacchy? I ’m a terrible hand 
for my meals.” 

“Well, that’s a good sign for love,” said 
Zacchy, “when you do play with your vittles 
and forget they’m there.” 

“Then I ’m feared I must give it up. I 
could n’t go without my vittles not for nobody 
livin’,” and Man’el shook his head. 

38 


Mangel Hodge's Courtship. 

“And you do lie awake by night thinkin’ 
about her?” Zacchy went on, regardless of 
Man’el’s feelings. 

“I could n’t do it, Zacchy — I could n’t 
come to it. I do sleep all night and never so 
much as turn till daylight. It is n’t no good.” 

“Well, that is love, Man’el. And it do 
make anybody that quick to see what a woman 
do want that ’t is like as if you ’d been trained 
to it all your days. And it do teach a man 
such pretty ways o’ doing things that you 
do n’t hardly know yourself.” 

“I’m a terrible awkward chap,” sighed 
Man’el, “and I may so well give it up to once.” 

“Iss, love is a wonderful smartener to a 
man, love is — ’tis like the sun to a garden 
bed.” 

“There isn’t no chance for me,” said 
Man’el, and he finished his scraping. “You 
haven’t spoke to nobody, have ’ee?” 

“No, of course not. But it will come if 
you give yourself fair play, bless ’ee; it will 
come, love will, like flowers out of a hedge- 
row, and bloom upon a thorn bush, give ’em a 
39 


Mangel Hodge^s Courtship, 

bit of sunshine and a breath of south wind. 
And that ’s what a woman do bring to a man. 
You set your mind upon it, Man’el, and think 
about her till I do see ’ee again.” And Zacchy 
went his way. 

As the thread about which the solution 
crystallizes, so to Man’el was the thought of 
Miss Susan Kynance. He saw her as he 
moved about the house, with thrifty and skill- 
ful hands controlling its affairs; she came to 
greet him smiling at the door. More and 
more her presence grew familiar until he be- 
came almost impatient at times to secure that 
of which at other times the mere thought 
overwhelmed him. Such were Man’el’s per- 
plexities when Zacchy came again, for the 
pupil lacked the courage to go to the pro- 
fessor. 

“Have ’ee thought about her?” Zacchy 
began. 

“Iss, Zacchy. I ’ve kept my mind steady 
upon her for a week, and ’t is terrible serious.” 

“Well, you must make haste and begin 
then.” 


40 


Man* el Hodge*s Courtship. 

“What, say something!” gasped Man’el. 

“No, not exactly say in*, but just let her see 
that you ’m thinkin’ about her a bit.” 

“How, then?” said Man’el. 

“Well, there ’s a tea-meeting next week, 
and you can sit up alongside of her, and see 
that she have all she want for to eat and drink. 
And put in something pretty if you can think 
of it.” 

“I never could, Zacchy, I never could,” 
groaned Man’el. 

“Nonsense, it will come right enough. 
You must give yourself a chance.” 

Poor Man’el I never had any ordeal seemed 
so terrible. All through the week he went to 
and fro, carrying a burden on his shoulders 
that crushed him. 

“ ’T is wearing my life away, Zacchy, and 
I can’t stand it,” he sighed, when next they 
met. 

“Nonsense^” laughed Zacchy: “we’m all 
like that to the beginning.” 

When the tea-meeting came it was Zacchy’s 
care that brought it about so that Miss Susan 

41 


Mangel Hodge*s Courtship, 

found herself seated at the table with Zacchy 
on one side and Man’el on the other. But 
poor Man’el thinking it would show his re- 
spect for the lady, and finding it easier in this 
way to hide his bashfulness, turned his back 
on her the whole time. 

‘Well, Man’el, how are you?” asked Miss 
Kynance, presently. 

“Good-mornin’,” gasped Man’el, looking 
over his shoulder, with a mouth full; “I do 
mean good-evenin’.” Then he choked and 
coughed violently. 

‘Will ’ee have some cake, miss?” ventured 
Man’el, later, handing the plate over his 
shoulder. 

“Thank you, Man’el; Zacchy keeps me 
well supplied.” 

“ ’T is very good of ’en, I ’m sure,” said 
Man’el, in a tone of infinite relief. 

There was a long interval of silence. 

“Gone to sleep, have ’ee, Man’el?” cried 
Zacchy at last. But Man’el was too absorbed 
for the question to reach his ears. 

It was gently repeated by Miss Kynance. 

42 


Mangel Hodge^s Courtship, 

“Zacchy wants to know if you are asleep, 
Man’el.” 

“Asleep?” he cried, rubbing his eyes, “well 
I think I was nearly, miss — you see, I was up 
all night with the old sow, and it do take it out 
of anybody, that — and — and thinkin’ about 
things.” 

“And I told him to say something pretty!” 
whispered Zacchy to himself. Whereupon he 
made up for Man’el’s neglect by handing 
Miss Susan some more cake. 

Afterwards the professor and the pupil 
met, the master snorting with scorn, and the 
poor pupil overwhelmed by the utter failure. 

“Zacchy,” said Man’el, “this is the terri- 
blest job that ever was; it is n’t no good, not 
a bit, and I may so well give it up.” 

“Man’el, you may. You haven’t got the 
understanding of a mouse. Why, there is n’t 
not one of God’s creatures on the face of the 
earth but do understand it better than you. 
See how the birds will get theirselves up in a 
new suit of feathers and come out in their 
smartest and sing to their mates like as if they 
43 


Mangel Hodge*s Courtship, 

was burstin’ theirselves with music. And 
you, the melancholiest-looking chap a female 
could set eyes upon, and so ugly and awkward 
in all your ways as a toad. I can’t teach ’ee 
nothing. And Miss Susan so fine and thrifty 
a woman as you could find, and a tidy sum of 
money put by and all. I never could have 
believed it if I had n’t seen it. ’T is a terrible 
thing when a man do n’t understand.” 

‘‘I ’m afraid I shall never get over it, 
Zacchy,” said Man’el. 

“No, I’m afraid you never will.” 

“Well, Zacchy,” pleaded Man’el, timidly, 
“do ’ee think you could do it for me, with your 
experience and all? If you was to tell her 
for me.” 

Zacchy looked doubtful. 

“I ’ll send ’ee some hog’s puddens for her,” 
said Man’el. 

“Well, mind the Boy’s Love and Sweet 
Williamses.” 

“Thank ’ee, Zacchy, I won’t forget.” 

It was some days later that Tamson Gun- 
dry came along to Man’el’s house. She had 
44 


Mangel Hodge^s Courtship, 

seen it all. Women have in these matters 
some faculty denied to men, and know in- 
stantly each step of the progress. 

‘Well, Man’el, have ’ee heard the news?” 
she began. 

“No, Mrs. Gundry, what is it then?” 

“Why, Zacchy is going for to be married.” 

“Aw, who to then?” 

“Who do ’ee think?” 

“I ’m sure I do n’t know,” said Man’el. 

“A thrify woman with a tidy sum put by 
and all. But can’t you guess?” 

“Live in the parish, do she?” 

“Why, Miss Susan Kynance, to be sure.” 

“What a mercy!” cried Man’el, giving a 
great gasp of relief. “I am glad.” 

“Sent her some hog’s puddens, did n’t ’ee?” 

“Iss, I believe I did,” said Man’el, as if he 
had forgotten all about it. 

“Put your name ’pon ’em, did ’ee?” 

“Why, no ; I tried, but I had n’t got so 
much boldness to begin with.” 

“And she thought they come from 
Zacchy.” 


45 


Mangel Hodge^s Courtship, 

‘Well, ’t is very kind of Zacchy.” 

“You don’t mind then, Man’el?” 

“Mind! Why, ’tis the blessedest relief 
that ever was. I do feel like as if I could 
breathe again. I do count that Zacchy never 
did a kinder turn to anybody than he have 
done to me.” 

When Mrs. Gundry was gone Man’el went 
muttering to himself: “However could she 
come for to think that I should mind? Zacchy 
do know what to do for a man, he do — so 
terrible experienced and all, and ’tis very 
kind of ’en.” 


HI. 

How IT came about Man’el could never 
tell, not even think. It seemed to him that it 
had all come of itself — with no word spoken 
and nothing done. 

He had never gone to take lessons, had 
never been put up to any methods, and yet 
there it was — the man who did not under- 
46 


Mangel Hodge^s Courtship. 

stand, the man awkward in word and ways, 
the man to whom all women were as much 
alike as a flock of sheep — Man’el was going 
to be married. 

It may have been quite accidentally that 
Mrs. Gundry happened to be passing Man’el’s 
house, and staid to have a word with him as 
he was digging in his garden. 

‘^Momin’, Man’el,” she began, “you got 
some fine leeks there, I see.” 

“Well, iss,” and Man’el lifted himself and 
rested on the spade, “I s’pose they be.” 

“Fine things for a pie, Man’el, and 
healthy, too, they say.” 

“Iss, if you do know how to make it,” 
sighed Man’el, for whom a deaf old slatternly 
woman came in to do the cooking, whose chief 
concern was to save herself any trouble. 

“Will ’ee have some, Mrs. Gundry?” 

“Well, I ’ll tell ’ee, Man’el; I ’ll take some 
home, and Kitty shall make a leekie pie, and 
you come down to supper, will ’ee?” 

“ ’T is very good of ’ee, I ’m sure. I ’ll 
come.” 


47 


Mangel Hodge^s Courtship, 

^Well, say about six o’clock, shall us, 
if that will suit ’ee? Good-bye for the 
present.” 

“Good-bye, and thank ’ee, Mrs. Gundry.” 

Ah, who can tell, as it should be told, the 
charms of a leekie pie? The crust all crisp 
and shiny brown, the gravy of a milky rich- 
ness, the succulent and juicy vegetable, the 
tender bits of bacon here and there. If the 
leeks for which the Israelites lusted were put 
into a pie, he will find it hard to blame them 
greatly who, after a day’s work, shall sit at 
such a supper as that which waited at Mrs. 
Gundry’s house for Man’el Hodge. 

Man’el thought he had never enjoyed any- 
thing so much in his life. The feeling of an 
infinite relief was still upon him, that he had 
not to consider his words and his ways. That 
was all gone forever, and now the very soul of 
him was flung with glad abandonment into 
the pleasure of the evening. The stupendous 
undertaking of trying to get a wife was at 
an end. 

It was with the blessedness of a great free- 

48 


Mangel Hodge^s Courtship. 

dom that Man’el sat in the cheery kitchen, 
where all was so bright and clean, and the 
very brasses and tins were polished like 
mirrors. It was a contrast with his own 
house that he could not but feel, yet he was 
too happy to trouble himself as to the cause 
of that contrast. About him were six 
merry maidens whose laughter was infectious, 
and over all was the cheery presence of 
the motherly old soul at the head of the 
table. 

Man’el had finished the first plateful with 
evident relish. 

“Have a bit more, Man’el?” said Mrs. 
Gundry, rising and cutting a crisp slice of the 
crust. “You ’m very welcome.” 

“Well, thank ’ee, Mrs. Gundry, I b’lieve I 
will. I never tasted nothing so good since 
mother died; she was a fine hand for 
pastry.” 

“Iss, your dear mother, she was that, 
Man’el. Kitty made this here, she ’s a good 
cook, is Kitty; that one next to ’ee, ’tis.” 

Kitty of the black curly hair and the merry 

4 49 


Mangel Hodge's Courtship. 

black eyes, blushed as Man’el turned to look 
at her. 

“Well, mother herself could n’t do it bet- 
ter, and I can’t say more than that.” 

It was still daylight on that autumn even- 
ing when, the supper ended, they strolled to 
the garden in front of the house. 

“They roses have got a lovely smell, to be 
sure,” said Man’el, drawing down a heavy 
spray to enjoy the fragrance more fully. 

“Will ’ee have some?” asked Mrs. Gun- 
dry, “you ’re welcome, Man’el. Put one in 
his buttonhole, Kitty, if he do n’t mind.” 

Pretty Kitty, with a roguish laugh, picked 
one and held it. “Perhaps Man’el would n’t 
like it.” 

“Aw, I don’t mind,” said Man’el; “they 
do smell lovely.” 

“Shall I pin it in for ’ee?” said Kitty, 
coming nearer. 

“I do n’t mind,” said Man’el. 

“Man’el likes leeks better, I b’lieve,” 
laughed Kitty. 

“Well, drawled Man’el, slowly, “come for 

50 


Mangel Hodge^s Courtship, 

to think about it, I believe I do. But I must 
be going home long.’’ 

^We ’re fine and glad to see it, Man’el.” 

“You ’m wonderful good, I ’m sure,” and 
Man’el was gone. 

The mother and the maidens were busy 
clearing up the dishes and putting things 
away, when he came back and thrust 
his head in at the door. “I ’ll give ’ee 
some more leeks if you mind to, Mrs. 
Gundry.” 

“Thank ’ee, Man’el, and Kitty shall make 
’ee another pie.” 

“Take care of the rose,” laughed Kitty. 

“Aw, I forgot about that. Good- 
night.” 

So, Man’el went home under the sunset 
sky, blessing Zacchy again that the terrible 
lessons were done with. “I shan’t never try 
to learn that any more; I ar’ n’t made for it,” 
and Man’el shut the door for the night and 
bolted it. 

It was but a few days after that Man’el 
came down to Mrs. Gundry’s, and having 

51 


Man el Hodge^s Courtship. 

knocked at the door he opened it, and walked 
boldly in. 

^'Anybody about, is there he called. 

“Yes, I ’m down here.” It was Kitty’s 
merry voice that called from the cool dairy 
with its slabs of slate where stood the pans of 
scalded cream. Here, with her sleeves rolled 
back over her arms, she was making the butter. 

“I ’ve brought some more leeks,” said 
Man’el, putting the basket on the floor. 

“ ’T is very good of you, I ’m sure. You ’ll 
come to supper, of course, and we ’ll have 
another pie,” and Kitty’s pretty face was 
turned towards him over her shoulder as she 
spoke. 

It was a charming picture. The black 
hair that would break out in little wisps and 
curls about her face and neck, a face full of 
kindly humor, and a mouth that seemed made 
for rippling laughter; the pink cotton gown 
that she wore, protected for her work by a big 
white apron. The cool air of the place was 
fragrant with the sweetness of the milk 
and the cream. Everything was deliciously 
S2 


Mangel Hodge^s Courtship, 

clean. Man’el could not but feel the charm 
of the place, though unconscious, perhaps, of 
what made it. It was rather the charm of an 
atmosphere than of anything he could define. 

“Your sister can make a lovely pie,” 
Man’el began, in his awkward way. 

“Sister!” laughed Kitty, “why, ’t is me!” 

“Aw, dear, dear! Women is all alike to 
me,” groaned Man’el. 

“Well, now Man’el, take a good look at 
me, and then you ’ll remember me,” and 
Kitty’s merry eyes were turned towards him as 
she looked over her shoulder. “I am Kitty, 
cook and dairymaid and gardener — so now 
you know.” 

“I shan’t know ’ee again, I’m sure! ’tis 
terrible awkward,” sighed Man’el. Then, as 
if that were not of the slightest matter, he 
looked about the dairy. “What a pretty place 
you ’ve got here to be sure, and how nice you 
do keep it. I wish mine was like it.” 

“Why do n’t you get somebody to look 
after it, then?” 

“Well, so I would if I knowed how to, but 

53 


Mangel Hodge^s Courtship. 

I do n’t. And I can’t learn it, neither — ’t is n’t 
no good tryin’. Do ’ee think mother could 
spare ’ee once a week for to see to the place?” 

“What, as dairymaid?” 

“Iss.” 

“I should want lots of wages,” Kitty 
laughed, “there would be so much to do. 
However, if I could not come myself I could 
send somebody else — ^you would n’t know, of 
course,” and Kitty laughed again. 

“No, I don’t think I should,” drawled 
Man’el. He sat for a while watching the 
supple fingers as they squeezed the yellow 
mass and rounded it to proper shape. 

“You ’ve a-got a pretty hand for butter. 
It do mind me of mother.” 

“Why, do n’t you know I got the first prize 
for my butter three years running at the 
show?” 

“To be sure! Well, well, you are clever.” 

There was a long silence in which was 
heard only the busy fingers as they wrung 
the cream to butter, whilst from the garden 
beyond came the happy music of the birds. 
54 


Man* el Hodge*s Courtship, 

^^Kitty,” Man’el began, in his most melan- 
choly tone, ’t is Kitty, is n’t it?” 

course it is,” laughed Kitty. ^^You ’re 
terrible forgetful.” 

‘‘I ’ve been thinkin’- ” 

^What about, then?” 

“Suppose a man that did understand what 
to do and what to say, come along all so 
smart as the flowers and so bold as a lion, 
and asked you for to be his wife, what would 
’ee say to ’en?” 

“Law, Man’el, how can I tell? Why, it 
would all depend upon the man.” 

“What, upon how he did it, or said it?” 

“No, of course not!” 

“What, then?” 

“Why, whether I liked him.” 

“And if you liked ’en?” 

“Well,” Kitty said, slowly, as she lifted 
her face and looked out of the little window 
into the garden beyond, whilst her hands lay 
idly in the butter, “if I liked him so well that 
I loved him I would tell him so.” 

“What would you tell ’en?” 

55 


Mangel Hodge's Courtship. 

^Why, that I loved him, to be sure.’’ 
‘iAw.” 

The clock in the kitchen struck twelve 
and Man’el started. “I Ve been here an 
hour,” he cried, “and I thought it was only 
five minutes.” He rose from his chair, stood 
for a minute, and sat down again. Then he 
began once more. 

“His awkward ways would n’t make any 
difference to ’ee, would it?” 

“Not if I liked him well enough.” 

“You said loved, just now!” 

“Well, loved him, then,” and Kitty, as she 
spoke, plunged her hands deeply into the dish 
and worked away vigorously at the butter. 

“Well,” — and Man’el sighed deeply — 
“s’pose he thought you was the nicest little 
maid he ever set eyes upon, and the cleverest, 
too, and could n’t tell ’ee so, what would ’ee 
do?” 

“Do?” and the laugh had given way to a 
more serious tone, “well, shall I tell ’ee?” 

“Iss, do ’ee, please; I ’m longing to know.” 

“Tell ’ee plain?” 


Mangel Hodge^s Courtship. 

“Iss, so plain as ever you can, for I ’m a 
terrible poor chap to understand.” 

“You must wait a minute, then,” and Kitty 
laughed again. “There, that ’s finished,” and 
she set the last pat of butter on the cool slab 
and then turned to wash her hands. 

“What would ’ee say, Kitty,” asked 
Man’el, impatiently, for Kitty seemed to be 
needlessly long wiping her hands on the towel 
behind the door. 

Then she came slowly and stood close in 
front of him. “Man’el,” she asked, and her 
voice was full of a great tenderness, “do ’ee 
really want to know?” 

“Terrible bad.” 

“Well — if you was that man, Man’el, I 
would say” — and she hesitated for a moment. 

“Do n’t ’ee be hard ’pon me,” pleaded 
Man’el. 

“I would say,” she began again, ^^you *re 
the dearest old goose that ever lived** Then, 
flinging her arms about his neck, she kissed 
him upon the forehead, and ran away out of 
the door and hid herself in the garden. 

57 


Man* el Hodge*s Courtship, 

Man’el took up the basket as one dazed 
and went on his way. He had gone a few 
yards from the house when a voice called after 
him, ‘^You ’re coming to supper — six o’clock, 
mind!” 

Man’el turned and called, “Kitty, Kitty, 
I do want ’ee.” 

But the door was shut, and Kitty was gone. 

It was done. Man’el knew it all now. He 
sat at dinner, but all was untasted. He did 
not so much as know it was there until the 
deaf old woman came in to clear the things 
away, and he did not hear her then until she 
came close to him and shouted at his side, 
“Lost your appetite, have ’ee, master?” 
Then Man’el started, and hastily finished the 
meal. 

All women alike! It seemed to Man’el 
that there was only one woman in the world — 
never had been any other, and never could 
be. Everywhere, in everything, in the heaven 
above and the earth beneath, he saw but Kitty’s 
merry face, and heard the music of that voice, 
and that touch of hers still thrilled him. 

58 


Man el Hodge^s Courtship. 

He went forth to see the sheep, but he 
walked under a new heaven, and in a new 
earth. The sky must have been gray till now 
— the beauty of the blue he had never seen 
before, nor known the whiteness of the fleecy 
clouds. He staid to listen to the lark, and 
wondered that he had never learned before 
the rapture of its song. Never were butter- 
cups so golden, and as he went he blessed the 
very daisies that looked up at him as if they 
loved him. 

He staid to look at his watch. It must 
surely have stopped. Only three, he hoped it 
was five. He held it to his ear, it was going. 
It seemed a day, a week, an eternity before he 
could begin to get ready for supper. 

With a care and smartness that he never 
knew before he prepared for the evening. 
His Sunday clothes were put on; and even 
they looked poor and shabby as he thought 
that he was to sit by Kitty’s side. 

It was half an hour before the time that he 
arrived at the house, where all were still 
busied in preparing for the meal. 

59 


Mangel Hodge^s Courtship, 


‘Why, Man’el!” cried Mrs. Gundry, as he 
came in at the door, “whatever have happened 
to smarten ’ee up like this here?” 

“ ’T is Kitty, I b’lieve,” said Man’el with 
a smile that set his eyes shining and filled his 
face with a sunny glow. “Will ’ee ask 
her to come and pin a rose in my button- 
hole?” 

“Like roses better than leeks, do you, then, 
after all, Man’el?” laughed Kitty. 

“I do to-night, Kitty,” said Man’el. 

“Terrible sudden, is n’t it?” said Mrs. 
Gundry, as she saw it all in a glance. 

“Iss, Mrs. Gundry, and terrible serious, 
too.” * 

So Man’el was married before Zacchy had 
so much as thought about his own wedding 
day. 

IV. 

Man’el had been married only some few 
weeks when one dark night he and Kitty 
6o 


Mangel Hodge^s Courtship, 

chanced to be coming from her mother’s 
house. The path lay through the fields and 
across two or three awkward stiles. It was at 
the last of these that Kitty fell, and was so 
hurt that she lay stunned and helpless on the 
ground. 

Man’el took her up in his arms and car- 
ried her as best he could to the house, fearing 
that she was dead. 

As soon as he reached home a messenger 
was at once sent off for the doctor, whilst 
another hastened to fetch Mrs. Gundry. 
Man’el carried Kitty upstairs and laid her on 
the bed. Then holding the candle over her, 
his own face as white as hers, he leaned to 
listen for her breathing, trembling from head 
to foot. She was alive. Man’el uttered a 
great gasp of thankfulness to God, and then 
could say no more. He sank helpless at her 
side. 

The doctor was soon on the spot, but 
Man’el could give no account of the accident 
— seemed to hear nothing, to know nothing — 
sat only as one dazed and unconscious. It 
6i 


Man'el Hodge's Courtship, 

was to Mrs. Gundry that directions were 
given as to all that should be done. 

The doctor had come back again to the bed 
and stood looking at Kitty carefully. “Her 
only chance is in good nursing and in perfect 
quiet,” said he. “It is the nurse that will 
save her more than the doctor. We must 
send for a nurse at once.” 

He had turned to leave the room, and 
had reached the top of the stairs, when 
Man’el followed and laid a hand on his 
shoulder. 

^^You must not send for a nurse, doctor," 

“But, my dear man,” said the doctor ten- 
derly, “it is her only chance.” 

“No, you mustn’t,” urged Man’el, “you 
mustn’t; I could not bear any hand to touch 
her but my own.” 

“O, that is all nonsense,” said the doctor, 
annoyed, “I have arranged that with Mrs. 
Gundry.” 

Man’el’s eyes flashed and his teeth were 
set. “A nurse shan’t come nigh her.” 

“Then your wife will die.” 

62 


Mangel Hodge^s Courtship. 

“If anybody in the world can save her, 
doctor, I can,” pleaded Man’el. 

In place of the drawl there was a fierce- 
ness and determination that startled the doc- 
tor. The candle lit up his figure as he stood 
on the stairs; the stoop was gone, and Man’el 
stood upright, his head thrown back, his face 
at once all defiance and yet all entreaty, every 
feature aglow with the passion of his great 
love. Here was a man who would fight a 
thousand deaths. 

“I do n’t want to go against you, doctor, 
but she’s mine, and no one else shall touch 
her. I would give my life for her, if it has 
got to be,” said Man’el. 

The doctor felt that the matter must be 
arranged quietly with Mrs. Gundry. He had 
settled it all with her, and then, before leav- 
ing, came again up the stairs and noiselessly 
entered the room. He found the candle care- 
fully screened, whilst Man’el in his shirt 
sleeves was settling the pillows for Kitty’s 
head with the skillful gentleness of a mother. 
The doctor went down again. “Mrs. Gun- 

63 


Mangel Hodge's Courtship. 

dry,” said he, “I think we can do without the 
nurse after all. You and Man’el will man- 
age.” 

“Man’el!” cried Mrs. Gundry. It was 
spoken with the scornful estimate of a man’s 
awkwardness that a woman feels at such 
times. 

‘‘I think Man’el will do more for her than 
both of us put together,” said the doctor, as he 
went out of the door. “I will come round 
early in the morning.” 

All night long Man’el sat by Kitty’s side. 
He may have dosed, but the least stir or 
lightest sound never failed instantly to awaken 
him. Mrs. Gundry came in half a dozen 
times during the night, only to find that there 
was nothing for her to do. 

The next day there came a return of con- 
sciousness. Kitty’s hand was put forth from 
the bedclothes, and a faint voice asked: 
“Where am I?” 

The room was darkened, and no sound 
had been permitted to disturb her. Kitty 
felt her hand resting very gently in Man’el’s 
64 


Mangel Hodge^s Courtship. 

as he bent and kissed it, whilst his tears fell 
on it. 

^‘Kitty, my darling, my darling,” he whis- 
pered, “you have been hurt, and now you 
must n’t talk, but keep quite still. I am here.” 

Gently he lifted her head and made the 
pillows more comfortable, then set her ten- 
derly back again, and he knew that almost at 
once she had sunk into a deep and healthy 
sleep. 

An hour later came the whisper again as 
Kitty stirred, “Man’el, are you there?” 

“Of course I am, my awn,” said he. 

“I want to see you, Man’el,” whispered 
Kitty. 

He rose and bent down to her for a mo- 
ment. Then he sank on his knees, holding her 
hand in his own. “Kitty, let us thank Him,” 
he whispered, with a choke in his voice. And 
again there was silence. 

0 0 0 0 ^ 

It was a day in May when Kitty was 
sufficiently recovered to sit out of doors. 
Everything was beautiful with the rich beauty 
5 65 


Mangel Hodge^s Courtship, 

in which spring seemed to melt into sum- 
mer, and each brought to each a perfect 
charm. The warmth of the sunshine was 
delicious. The blue sky, with trail of white 
fleecy clouds, arched a picture of hedgerows 
where the hawthorn bloomed, and green 
fields, golden with buttercups, where the 
lambs frolicked and scampered. Clumps of 
trees stretched away to the haze of distant 
hills. The air was sweet with the breath of 
flowers and glad with the songs of birds. The 
lark was on high, and the cuckoos called to 
each other; the swallows were skimming the 
meadows and twittering about the eaves of 
the outbuildings. 

Forth from the old farmhouse door came 
Man’el bringing a tray on which was set a 
glass of milk and two or three pieces of bread 
and butter which his own hand had cut, and 
beside it was set a bunch of roses from Mrs. 
Gundry’s garden — the roses which had always 
been Kitty’s special care. 

Man’el set a cushion behind Kitty’s head, 
and then put the tray on her lap. 

66 


Mangel Hodge^s Courtship, 

‘‘O, Man’el,” sighed Kitty, the sigh of a 
soul filled with satisfaction, ^‘you do know 
how to make anybody comfortable.” 

What Man’el might have said was inter- 
rupted. He had become quite quick in his 
replies, and seemed always ready to say the 
right thing and to say it in the prettiest way, 
Kitty thought, but at that moment Zacchy 
came in at the garden gate. 

He drew himself up with the pride of a 
professor who takes to himself the credit of a 
pupil’s success. “Man’el, I told ’ee so, did n’t 
I? Love do smarten up a man like summer 
do smarten up a garden-bed.” 

’T is wonderful true,” said Man’el, his 
face aglow and his big brown hand holding 
the thin white hand of Kitty. 

^^Iss,” said Zacchy, told ’ee so. Can 
’ee mind my words? A proper woman do 
make a man so beautiful as the south wind 
and sunshine do make the hedgerow and the 
thornbush.” 

“ ’T is wonderful true,” said Man’el, with 
his eyes fixed on Kitty. 

67 


Mangel Hodge^s Courtship. 

‘‘But there,” said Zacchy, “I was almost 
forgetting what I come for. Miss Susan 
Kynance and me is going to be married next 
Wednesday morning. I wish Kitty was well 
enough to come to the weddin’.” 

“Thank ’ee, Zacchy, and I do wish ’ee 
every happiness.” 

“Well, I ’m fine and glad to see ’ee so 
much better, my dear. Good morning,” and 
Zacchy went on his way. 

“What a pity you did not understand how 
to do it,” said Kitty, with the old tone in her 
laugh. 

Man’el bent down and kissed the white 
forehead. “I do call it a mercy,” said he. 


68 


I 


• k 


1 1 






THE SMUGGLER. 



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• i f / 

S 

I 

V ' 


i ‘ 




. r 


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t 


t 

I t 



a 




The Smuggler. 


A TALE OF EARLY METHODISM. 

I. 

It was away in the little seaside parish 
of St. Glewyas, in Southwest Cornwall — a 
jutting peninsula spread into many coves, 
separated from each other by high ridges of 
cliff which fronted the sea like frowning fort- 
resses, then sloped away into a green height 
patched with sea pink or gay with the golden 
furze. 

At the head of each cove clustered three 
or four fishermen’s cottages, low, with white- 
washed roof and white-washed walls, clinging 
to each other as though they dreaded the 
fierceness of the gales which swept from the 
sea, and knew the havoc they wrought, and 
how many a home had been swiftly bereft of 
father or son, or both. 

On a hill amidst the trees stood the gray 
parish church, its tower a landmark for the 

71 


The Smuggler. 


fishermen. Here dwelt the parson and the 
squire; and here, too, flourished the public- 
house of the parish, its beaten signboard 
creaking in the wind, bearing melancholy 
remnants of “The Three Choughs.” And 
here was the shop where one could get all that 
mortal ever needed for this life in the simple 
ways of St. Glewyas. 

The rough road that led to the parish went 
down a winding hill of dreadful steepness, 
then plunged into a wooded dip, across the 
little brook, and then climbed up another 
steep height lost between deep hedges. Half 
a dozen cottages peeped from the elms, with 
gardens where hydrangea and fuchsia 
bloomed the whole year round, and hedged 
with tamarisk. Thence went a slope seaward 
where the brook lost itself in shingle and 
sand; and between the cliffs was a narrow 
strip of blue sea stretching away to where in 
silver haze the sea line met the sky and they 
were lost in each other. 

On the grass above the beach the nets were 
set to dry, and lower down were fishing-boats 
72 


The Smuggler, 


and all sorts of fishing-gear. On the sands 
close to the rippling waves stood great flocks 
of gulls with head to wind, whilst on the rocks 
sat the cormorants with the solemnity that 
befitted their somber hue. 

On the other side of the road was the 
water-mill, and beside it the shed, in the upper 
floor of which the little Methodist society met 
for worship on the Sabbath evening. Such 
was the village of Trenant. Here dwelt Jerry 
Lanyon, and Jenefer his wife; she a saint 
in the plain Methodist dress by which our 
great-grandmothers sought to rebuke the 
pomps and vanities of a wicked world — not 
always free, perhaps, from a pride of their 
humility. But no pride of that sort touched 
the heart of Jenefer. If ever she thought of 
herself, it was only to sigh over her own short- 
comings, and perhaps with another sigh that 
she availed so little to make Jerry see things 
as she saw them. 

Not that Jerry was amiss — no, indeed. 
But while Jenefer sang in solemn tones, “No 
room for mirth or trifling here,” Jerry in- 
73 


The Smuggler, 

dulged in a great laugh. And although he 
went duly to the parish church with Jenefer 
on the Sunday morning, and as regularly to 
the Methodist service on the Sunday evening, 
yet he showed no relish for those other means 
of grace on week-days which to Jenefer meant 
so much. 

To-day there had come to her a new 
trouble about her husband, a gloomy fear 
which oppressed her. 

It was at supper- time that Jerry had come 
in from the day’s work in the patch of field 
attached to his cottage, where he had been 
busy digging the potatoes and storing them 
for the winter. Jenefer set on the table a dish 
of fish and ’tates, the two chopped and fried 
together and deliciously browned in the oven. 

^‘Ah, Jenefer, my dear, bless ’ee,” said 
Jerry cheerily, “ ’t is a picture for to look ’pon, 
and do smell so good as a bit of Paradise.” 

The quiet wife sat down without a word ; 
but there was a deeper tint in her sweet face, 
and an added light in her eyes. 

Jerry had finished supper, and sat puffing 

74 


The Smuggler, 

at his “churchwarden;” and Jenefer had put 
all away tidily, when she came and sat at his 
side holding a tract in her hand. 

“What have ’ee got there, my dear?” — 
for printed matter in those days in any form 
was much of a rarity. 

“Praicher called and left it to-day,” said 
Jenefer. “He said Mr. Wesley had wrote it 
his own self, and special for us Cornish 
folks.” 

“Aw! Cornish folks worse than any 
others, are they, then?” asked Jerry, with the 
pride for his county which is so marked a 
feature of its people. 

“Well, I s’pose he do think so,” sighed 
Jenefer. 

“Have ’ee read it?” he asked, with a touch 
of temper. 

Jerry himself could not read, and mar- 
veled at the fine scholarship of his wife, that 
out of those unmeaning dots and forms she 
should be able to get at the thoughts of an- 
other. 

“Iss, I ’ve a-read it through.” 

75 


The Smuggler, 


^‘What is it called, then?” 

A 'Word to a Smuggler/ 

Jerry’s eyes flashed and his face grew fiery 
red, for his Celtic blood was easily set on a 
blaze. 

^^Law! he to go for to write about smug- 
glin’. What do he know about it, I won- 
der?” And Jerry took the pipe from his 
mouth and blew a cloud of smoke contempt- 
uously. ^‘Impidence, iss, impidence, I do call 
it!” And he puffed away fiercely. 

“Mr. Wesley do say ’t is a sin,” sighed 
Jenefer meekly. 

“He do, do he! Well — lev ’en, then. I do 
say it is ’n’, and he do say it is. And he do rdt 
know, and I do. Sin, indeed!” And Jerry 
turned and looked out of the window. 

“But he ’s a terrible learned man, Jerry, 
and a wonderful good man, too!” 

“Well, s’pose he is, what of that? There ’s 
things he do know; but there ’s things he do rdt 
know. Who is he, then, for to set hisself up 
in judgment ’pon a whole county? Why, 
there’s parson up to church town, he’s 
76 


The Smuggler, 


college bred an’ all. Mr. Wesley is n’t more 
learneder than he, I except And did n’t us 
land a cargo of brandy for ’en, his own self — 
he lendin’ a hand to stow it away up in the 
church tower? And he said the bells never 
rang sweeter than when it was safe, not ’pon 
his own marriage day. Lev Mr. Wesley 
’bide home ’long with his own folks that he do 
understand — he ’s nothing but a foreigner, 
after all said and done, and we are n’t” 

Poor Jenefer’s face grew troubled. She 
had been used to it all her days, and had never 
seen any harm in it; but what if Mr. Wesley 
were right! ^‘He ’s a good man, you know, 
Jerry!” 

‘^Good. O’ course he is. Lev ’en stick to 
his goodness — lev ’en go on preachin’ and 
prayin’ and tellin’ folks about heaven and all 
that! But smugglin * — he do n’t know nothin’ 
about it A man might know all about the 
stars in the sky; but that won’t teach ’en how 
to set a bait for conger-eel, or how to haul in 
a pilchard-net ’T is impidence;” and the 
smoke came out in short, angry puffs. 

77 


The Smuggler. 

‘‘He do make out that a smuggler do n’t 
neither love God nor honor the King.” 

''The kingr cried Jerry, springing up 
from his chair; “whatever difference do it 
make to he? The king have never had no 
more than he do get now from St. Glewyas. 
And what he never had, he can’t lose, and he 
do n’t miss. It do mean more to we than it do 
to he. Why, I can mind when I was nothing 
but a li’l boy, and the three of us runned a 
cargo o’ brandy — there was ‘old Jerry,’ as they 
called ’en — that was grandfer, and there was 
father — he was ‘Jerry,’ and there was me — I 
was ‘Li’l Jerry.’ ‘Let ’en go,’ says grandfer, 
‘let ’en go — he ’s so old as you was when you 
began, and older than I was, I reckon.’ 
Whatever difference do it make to the king? 
Pooh!” 

There Jenefer inclined to agree with Jerry, 
or at any rate was ready to think it was not of 
much consequence. But the other objection 
might have a terrible significance — she sighed 
deeply. 

* “But what about God?” 


The Smuggler, 

“Well, seemin’ to me ’t is a terrible mean 
thing for to bring He into it, to make out that 
God ’s agen it, when He have n’t said so. You 
do know better than I do, Jenefer, for you do 
read it every day. There’s nothin’ in the 
Bible agen smugglin’, is there?” 

“No, nothin’ that I ever seed.” 

“Of course there is n’t. There ’s Ten Com- 
mandments, and I do know them by heart, 
and it do n’t say. Thou shall not smuggle when 
thou hast a chance. ’T is n’t lyin’ and t’ is n’t 
stealin’ and ’t is n’t not honoring thy father 
and thy mother: for they did it their own 
selves — dear mother, how busy she ’d be 
long with the ankers o’ brandy; and ’t is n’t 
rememberin’ the Sabbath day for to keep it 
holy, ’cepts ” And Jerry paused a mo- 

ment, as one who skates on thin ice, and then 
boldly went on, as if safety lay in courage — 
“ ’cepts when you can’t help it so to speak — 
for winds and tides are not of our makin’ — I 
wish they was.” 

But Jenefer shook her head. “I don’t 
know what to say about it, I ’m sure.” 

79 


The Smuggler. 

‘Well, I do,” grunted Jerry. “Mr. Wes- 
ley do n’t know St. Glewyas parish, or he 
would n’t go preachin’ up old stuff like that. 
What did God go for to make a place like this 
for, all creeks and coves for a ship to come 
into, and handy gugs (caves) for to stow the 
stuff in when you ’re got it ashore, if ’t is a 
sin? ’Tis what I call flyin’ in the face of 
Providence, not to turn it all to account when 
He have made it like as if it was on purpose.” 
Then Jerry got up and put on his jacket — “I 
gived Mr. Wesley credit for more sense.” 
And Jerry went on his way. 

But Jenefer sat on by the fire. Perhaps 
her fear for her husband in this life had more 
to do with her thoughts than even the spiritual 
anxieties which much more commonly con- 
cerned her. To her it seemed a sort of a 
“token” that Mr. Wesley’s tract should have 
been left by the preacher just at the time 
when the authorities were taking special steps 
against smuggling. The thing had become so 
notorious that those at the head of affairs had 
begun to suspect that the coast-guardsmen 
8o 


The Smuggler. 


were in league with the smugglers and had 
been bribed into quietness. 

A Yorkshireman named Murgatroyd, who 
had proved both his courage and faithfulness 
in many ways, had been sent down to take 
charge of things, and with him a company of 
his own choosing. He had made it known 
that he was not going to be trifled with, and 
his men went armed with pistol and cutlass. 

^‘He do mean business, even if ’t is a mat- 
ter of life and death,” a fisherman had whis- 
pered to his mates. 

''So do we/' was the reply of Jerry, fiercely 
spoken. 


II. 

Murgatroyd was a good-hearted York- 
shireman, whose coming was resented as a 
foreigner, and to whom the speech of the 
people was an added difficulty, for the fisher- 
men of St. Glewyas could speak enough of 
the old Cornish language to disguise their 
words when they wanted to. He, too, had 
6 8i 


The Smuggler, 


came under the influence of Methodism, and 
was glad to render the little society such help 
as they were glad to receive. There, at any 
rate, was a brotherhood into which he was 
welcomed. Yet amongst them all, though 
they flocked to hear him preach, and joined 
with him in singing their rapturous hymns, 
there was not a man who would not lend a 
hand at smuggling when opportunity served. 
And even the women would take their part 
and run risks which made Murgatroyd’s work 
a greater difficulty. When it came to a con- 
flict with these mothers and maidens, who 
gave their experience in the class-meeting 
with such sincerity, it was hard indeed to 
know how far to go. 

But a keener pair of eyes or a quicker pair 
of ears never any carried than did he. He 
was there to do his duty without favor or 
fear. If religion meant anything to this man, 
it meant that. And they of St. Glewyas, 
when they set themselves to match their wits 
against the coast-guardsmen, looked for guid- 
ance to Jerry Lanyon. 

82 


The Smuggler, 

One evening Jerry sauntered down the 
village street with an air of innocence that 
was enough to rouse the suspicion of the 
Yorkshireman. At the bottom of the street 
Jerry stood and waited for another, one of the 
boldest and most determined of the fishermen, 
Jem Botterill. They met as if by chance, and 
stood gossiping together, sure that Murga- 
troyd would be watching them. He knew, as 
they did, that the Nancy was due one night of 
that week somewhere on the coast, and the 
thing he sought to find was where it was to be. 

The shadows of the evening were creeping 
over the valley as Murgatroyd watched the 
two men go on their way, and he resolved to 
follow them, keeping himself hidden as well 
as he might. They passed together up the 
little path that went winding between granite 
rocks and golden furze-bushes to the top of 
the cliff, where they sat. Behind them rose a 
mass of granite hiding them from landward, 
whilst in front stretched the western sea, the 
sky still crimson and purple with the linger- 
ing tints of sunset. 


83 


The Smuggler, 


Murgatroyd saw his chance, and unob- 
served crept over the short green grass to the 
back of the rock, and listened. 

“When is she a-comin’ then, Jerry?” asked 
Jem Botterill. 

“Friday night,” said Jerry. “IVe had 
word — ’pon the flood tide.” 

Jem Botterill looked over his shoulder be- 
fore he spoke, and lowered his voice, “Where 
to, then?” 

“Under Cat Head — so have all ready. 
Murgatroyd won’t think of lookin’ for her 
where she corn’d in last time; and if he do, 
well, us will be ready for ’en, that ’s all.” 

So Muragtroyd had his information, as 
Jerry Lanyon knew well enough he would 
have, and laid his plans accordingly. But the 
Yorkshireman was quick enough to think it 
might have been Jerry’s trick, and he set his 
men to watch which way the fishermen should 
take. 

On the appointed evening they saw Jerry 
and Jem go away over the cliff towards Cat 
Head, while from other parts of the parish 


The Smuggler, 


came men one by one to the same point. 
Murgatroyd knew now it was all right, and 
with his company armed for the night’s work 
he waited by Cat Head. Jerry and his men 
were hidden in a deep cave ; and Murgatroyd 
set his company behind the rocks on the 
shore. 

But what Murgatroyd did not know was 
that an old mine working at the back of the 
cave afforded a sloping path to the top of the 
cliffs, the mouth of which was hidden by 
bramble and furze-bushes. Silently Jerry led 
his men up the narrow way to the surface, and 
then in the darkness they all crept back to 
Trenant to find the Nancy waiting for them. 
Before dawn a score of hands had borne the 
ankers of brandy and cases of tobacco safely 
away. As the day broke Murgatroyd and his 
men saw the Nancy out at sea, dancing on the 
sparkling waves like a thing laughing at him. 
The Cornishmen had beaten the Yorkshire- 
man again. 

Murgatroyd knew that it would be of little 
avail to search for the cargo. By this time 

8s 


The Smuggler, 


very likely it was borne by a score of donkeys 
far inland. Silently he moved here and there, 
observant of the fishermen, but found no clue. 
He had strolled up the valley of Trenant and 
caught sight of the miller’s shed — that was too 
open and manifest a place for these sharp men. 
Still, he might give a look in, as there was no 
one about. He opened the door — there were 
sacks of corn, a good dozen of them piled 
high up, almost touching the floor of the loft 
above. 

There had been a drought, and it was 
plain that the miller was waiting for more 
water to grind his corn. Murgatroyd shut 
the door again, and went up the valley 
through the wood, to hear nothing but the 
noisy scolding of the jay and the scream of 
the blackbird; and to see nothing but the 
twinkle of the rabbits’ tails, as though they, 
too, resented his coming amongst them as a 
foreigner. 

Murgatroyd strolled back again, and ac- 
cepted his defeat as only a brave, strong man 
knows how to do. 


86 


The Smuggler, 


By the brook stood Jerry, scarcely able to 
conceal a merry twinkle in his eye. 

^^Good-mornin’,” said the Yorkshireman, 
who tried to keep in friendliness with all. 

“Good-mornin’, good-mornin’,” said Jerry. 
“ ’T is a beautiful day.’’ 

“Beautiful. How is Jenefer?” 

“Beautiful, too, thank ’ee — she always is. 
Will ’ee please for to come in and see her. 
She ’ve got somethin’ for to show ’ee, I 
b’lieve.” 

“O, and what is that, then?” 

Together they went to the cottage, where 
Jenefer, with loose sun-bonnet set about her 
comely face, was busy amongst the flowers and 
herbs. Medicines in those days were home- 
grown, like the doctors and nurses, and camo- 
mile tea was almost a cure-all for such com- 
plaints as did not call for the aid of the 
charmer. 

“Jerry tells me you have something to 
show me,” said Muragtroyd, shaking hands 
warmly with Jenefer. 

“You know,” cried Jerry, “the thing 

87 


The Smuggler, 

that the praicher left — what Mr. Wesley 
wrote.’’ 

“What, a letter from Mr. Wesley?” asked 
Murgatroyd. 

“No — it is n’t a letter,” said Jenefer; “ ’t is 
a tract, I b’lieve, that he ’ve sent down. But 
I ’ll show it to ’ee — ^will ’ee please for to 
walk in?” 

Murgatroyd took the tract and looked at 
it, reading a passage here and there. 

“I think I will bring it before the society 
on Sunday evening.” 

“Jerry don’t believe in it,” said Jenefer. 

“I am afraid none of them do,” said Mur- 
gatroyd. “I wish they did.” 

“I can’t tell what to think,” said Jenefer. 

“Well, at any rate, it can do no harm to 
read it, and it may do some good — may I 
borrow it?” 

“O, iss ; you may keep it if you ’ve a 
mind to.” 

The next Sunday evening the little loft 
was crowded; for almost every one went to 
the Methodist service at night, as the Meth- 
88 


The Smuggler. 

odists and all else went to the parish church 
in the morning. 

With hearty singing the service had com- 
menced, followed by a prayer in which York- 
shiremen and Cornishmen could join in lusty 
responses. 

‘‘My friends,” began Murgatroyd, “I have 
in my hand a tract which Mr. Wesley has 
written and sent down to us. It is called 
Word to a Smuggler/ 

Jerry snorted, and all the light and glow 
of the service died out at once. 

Murgatroyd snuffed the tallow candles 
that were placed on each side of the desk, 
and put on his glasses. 

Suddenly the silence was broken by a hor- 
rible crash. Amidst the shrieks of the con- 
gregation, the people and preacher, and forms 
and desks, were all tumbled together in hid- 
eous confusion. 

The floor had given way. 

But almost before any could think what 
had happened it stayed suddenly — sloping it 
was true, but firm. The people picked them- 
89 


The Smuggler, 


selves up as well as they could, and to their 
utter amazement found that they were neither 
killed nor hurt. 

It seemed to them all a miracle. 

“My friends,” said Murgatroyd, in a tone 
of awe — for the tract was forgotten, had in- 
deed gone down a crack in the floor — ^“let us 
praise God for this wonderful deliverance. 
But for the drought which has prevented the 
miller from grinding his corn, many of us 
must have been hurt and some of us have been 
killed. Let us lift our hearts in singing the 
doxology.” 

The congregation had gone its way. Jerry 
and Jenefer sat that evening by the fire. 

“It was a great deliverance,” said Jenefer, 
with her sweet voice; “we ought to be very 
thankful.” 

“Very,” said Jerry, as he filled his pipe. 

“If it had n’t been for the miller’s corn, we 
might all have been killed.” 

“Miller’s corn!” laughed Jerry. 

“ ’T is n’t no laughin’ matter,” sighed Jen- 
efer — “seemin’ to me it was a wonderful 
90 


The Smuggler. 

Providence;” and she spoke with a tone of 
reproof. 

“Providence! Of course it was. But it 
was n’t the miller’s corn that done it.” 

“What was it then?” Jenefer looked up 
in surprise. 

“Why, the ankers of brandy and cases of 
tobacco that we brought in ’pon Friday night. 
They stacks of corn was only in front.” 

“Well, it was a Providence all the same.” 

“Iss, but who helped ’en? What do ’ee 
think of Mr. Wesley’s tract now? *A Word 
to a Smuggler/ indeed! Seemin’ to me he ’ve 
a-got his answer;” and Jerry laughed again. 
“ ’Lev us gone to supper, Jenefer. I ain’t got 
no patience with such old stuff!” 

Poor Jenefer sighed. “I do n’t know what 
to think,” said she. 


91 



f 


9 


i,» 


f 


i 



\ 


THE PRAYERS OF THE 


CONGREGATION. 


f 


4 


« 



The Prayers of the Congregation. 


^^Mephibosheth Tucker desires the prayers 
of this congregation/^ 

It was in a scrawled writing, on a dirty 
piece of paper, and inclosed in a soiled en- 
velope. 

^*Mephibosheth Tucker desires the prayers 
of this congregation. * T is a thing of mo- 
mentous incomprehensibility 

The last two words were spelt with a 
hyphen between each syllable, for Mephibo- 
sheth had but two books, his Bible and an old 
English Dictionary. He boasted that he had 
gone through the dictionary five times, and 
had got half-way through the letter D for the 
sixth time, and it was evident that the words 
had been copied as they were printed there. 

“Did you tell him that I am very busy?” I 
asked, as the maid handed me the note — for it 
95 


The Prayers of the Congregation. 

was Saturday morning, and the Sunday’s ser- 
mon had yet to be prepared. 

“Yes, sir, I told him so. But he came in 
and sat down and said he was n’t in a hurry; 
he could wait till dinner-time.” 

As it was only ten o’clock, my first thought 
was to let him pay the penalty for intruding 
on my Saturday morning — he should sit there 
until I had done, and I turned to my work. 
But it was no good for me to try. Here was 
I going to preach on love to my brother, and 
all the time I saw poor old Mephibosheth 
sitting there mopping his brow with his red 
handkerchief — for he was quite a genius in 
the matter of perspiring. After trying to set 
down a few notes on the text, I pushed back 
my chair and began thinking of the old man, 
and wondering what this trouble could be of 
which the paper told, with its Mo-ment-ous 
In-con-pre-hen-st-bility. 

Mephibosheth was a long, lank figure of 
six feet and more, but you felt that if you 
could only screw him up into five feet and a 
half he might have made a proper and com- 
96 


The Prayers of the Congregation. 

pact man. His joints somehow seemed as if 
they had never joined. His head drooped 
pendulous and swayed like a flower on its 
stem. His long arms hung loosely, and his 
hands flapped like the fins of a fish. His big 
feet never moved at the same angle, and were 
flung loosely forward as if uncertain where 
to come down. 

He was the owner of a donkey and cart, 
and wandered about the country-side picking 
up rags and bones, generally in exchange for 
tinware or cloam — which is the west country 
phrase for crockery. He lived in a little 
thatched cottage down a leafy lane, that went 
winding about itself so much that before long 
it lost itself and disappeared altogether. 
Behind the cottage was a shed, the home of 
the donkey and the shelter of his somewhat 
ill-smelling stock in trade. It was his own bit 
of freehold, the only bit in the parish that did 
not belong to the squire. Some ancestor had 
settled down there, and then, untroubled by 
anybody as to rent for a good twenty years, 
found himself in possession of the property. 
7 97 


The Prayers of the Congregation, 

To the squire it was a fly in his ointment, a 
gnat in his cup; and there were times when 
he was tempted to try and thrust forth this 
objectionable neighbor. 

Mephibosheth had never married, and de- 
clared that “no woman of the female sex had 
ever set foot in the place not by my permission 
and not for to stay.” His love was absorbed 
in his flowers, and they responded with an 
abundance and profusion that the squire him- 
self might have envied. But it was not as 
florist that Mephibosheth shone most brightly. 
In the matter of flowers he was but a star 
in a firmament of stars, for everybody had a 
garden in that remote Cornish parish. It was 
in the matter of bees that Mephibosheth stood 
alone, a sun in the heavens. Bees were 
everywhere in his place — they swarmed in 
the garden, they swarmed under the thatch, 
they buzzed by hundreds in his bedroom and 
kitchen. He possessed some strange charm 
and power — half a witch, the people said — 
for could he not stanch blood by passing his 
hand three times and muttering some mysteri- 


The Prayers of the Congregation. 

ous words? Whatever the charm was, the 
bees knew it and honored it. 

Whenever there was a swarm, a boy was 
dispatched for Mephibosheth with as much 
excitement and alarm as when they fetched the 
doctor for a broken limb. And as soon as the 
long, loose figure appeared, all the household 
fled and watched from safe places, wondering 
at his power. He would sweep the cluster 
into a cloth with one stretch of his arm, and 
then, laying them out on the kitchen table, 
humming all the time with a musical mono- 
tone, as if he understood their language and 
sang them one of the songs of their own Zion, 
he turned them over until he found the queen, 
and put it under his hat; then, followed by the 
swarm, he went on his way to set the queen in 
a hive. He had never been stung, although 
they lit about him, covering his face and 
buzzing around him with wild excitement. 

And now Mephibosheth had come to ask 
the prayers of the congregation. What could 
it be? Requests for thanksgiving were com- 
mon enough in that healthy parish, where 
LOFC. 99 


The Prayers of the Congregation, 

babies came in troops, like the angels to Jacob 
of old at Mahanaim. And even requests for 
prayer had been known in cases of illness, but 
of that everybody was sure to know, and would 
have talked it over for days to everybody else. 

That a man should bring his own request 
for the prayers of the congregation was a thing 
unheard of, and I found myself repeating the 
words as I went down to him, mo-ment-ous in- 
com-pre-hen-si-bility. And I remembered 
how he had said to me once, “I do love 
them great words, passen. I do lie in my bed 
and say them over to myself, till I can feel 
them rollin’ like the breakers down ’pon the 
sands, one over the other, and roarin’ like 
God’s thunders.” 

This man had a soul in him, I had said to 
myself, and some poetry. But yet, to revel in 
a dictionary! 

I came into the room and stood holding 
the paper in my hand. 

‘Well, Mephibosheth,” I said; “and what 
is it?” 

He sat on the edge of the chair, his head 
ICX) 


The Prayers of the Congregation, 

propped by his hands, his elbows on his knees. 
The old tall hat, green with age, was placed 
between his feet, a red handkerchief lying on 
the edge of it. He put out one of his hands 
and flapped it towards a chair. 

Much experience had taught me that to 
bring a visitor quickly to business and to send 
him quickly on his way when it was done, it is 
always well to stand. But there was no such 
escape now — that was plain, so I sat down. 

“ ’T is n’t no manner of a thing to be taken 
in hand lightly, unadvisedly, wantonly, but 
duly considerin’, as the sarvice do say.” 

^What! you are not going to be married, 
Mephibosheth?” I laughed. 

But he reproved such levity by a groan, 
and fetching out his handkerchief, he mopped 
himself with it round to the back of his neck. 

I had to resign myself, and must wait for 
Mephibosheth to proceed in his own way. 
Mentally he was as disjointed as he was 
physically. 

“I do pride myself that I be a man of un- 
derstandin’ and observation.” 


lOI 


The Prayers of the Congregation, 

“Certainly, certainly,” I said, for that was 
his usual preface. 

“Iss, I be — understandin’ and observa- 
tion.” 

Again came a tremendous pause. 

“But it have failed me this time.” He 
sighed and picked up the red handkerchief. 

“There is n’t no word in the English lan- 
guage for it but them two. And I have 
searched thickey dictionary through from end 
to end — ^Momentous incomprehensibility 

There was nothing for me to do but to 
wait for a fuller explanation of the mystery. 
It came after the pause of many minutes. 

** is the dunkey!* 

“But you want the prayers of the congrega- 
tion !” I gasped, horrified at the thought of it. 

“Why not, then, sir?” said Mephibosheth, 
severely, “when it do say that in everything 
by prayer and supplication we are to make 
known our wants. And that dunkey is every- 
thing to me, so to speak.” 

“Our own prayers — ^yes,” I said; “but the 
prayers of the congregation 1” 


102 


The Prayers of the Congregation, 

“And why not that, sir? ’T is a matter of 
life and death.” 

“What, to the donkey?” 

“The dunkey! No, sir, no, but to me. 
Iss, life and death.” 

“But I do n’t understand.” 

“Well, I will make it so plain for ’ee as 
ever I can.” 

And again Mephibosheth dived for his 
red handkerchief. 

“You see, the squire have told me that he 
is a-going to put the law upon me for a 
noosance. He ’d gived me fortnight, he said, 
and if I can’t cure the dunkey of his braying 
he ’s going to put the law ’pon the dunkey. 
And if I do lose the dunkey I do lose my 
livin’ and all.” 

Poor Mephibosheth mopped himself 
again, as if overwhelmed at the terror of it. 

“I ’ve a-tried honest for to cure the dunkey, 
and I ’m a man of understandin’ and obser- 
vation. I have talked to that dunkey same as 
I ’ve talked to the bees, and reasoned with ’en. 
I ’ve pointed out the ungratefulness of it, me 
103 


The Prayers of the Congregation, 

a-feedin’ and a-tendin’ ’en ’most day and night, 
and never took the stick to ’en in my life — no, 
not once, not never so much as lifted my hand 
upon ’en. He was a bit better for it at first, 
and I do believe he took it to heart; but he ’s 
gone back, so to speak, he ’s gone back, and is 
so bad as ever. 

“Well, seein’ reasonin’ ’long with ’en 
was n’t any avail, and kindness failed — bless 
’ee, sir, I ben so patient and tender ’long with 
’en as his awn mother — but I had to come to 
it, compulsory measures what they call; iss, 
I had for to come to force.” 

“And how did that answer?” I asked. 

“Well, I be a man of understandin’ and 
observation, and I noticed that before that 
dunkey could bray he had for to open his 
mouth. ‘My dear,’ I said, ‘you have a-done 
for yourself now. I ’ll stop your brayin’ for 
’ee by force if I can’t by love.’ And I made a 
muzzle and put it on his mouth. He was a 
bit better the first night; but the next day he 
made up for it — terrible, terrible. Well, I 
took the muzzle in an inch; but, bless ’ee, 
104 


The Prayers of the Congregation. 

’twas like laughing at anybody, the way he 
went on. I took that muzzle in till he 
could n’t more than open his teeth for to bite 
a grass blade. But it was worse than ever. 
The voice of that dunkey went up a note for 
every inch I took the muzzle in, till it come to 
be the terriblest screech, and you could hear 
it a’most all over the parish.” 

‘T have heard it,” I said, ^‘and wondered 
what it was.” 

‘Tt was that dunkey, sir, that dunkey” — 
and Mephibosheth could scarcely conceal a 
certain degree of pride in its intelligence, even 
though it had thus defeated him. 

He went on, resorting more frequently to 
the red handkerchief. “ ^Mephibosheth,’ I 
said to myself, ^you ’re beat, dead beat;’ and I 
was, passen, iss, so I gived that up. But be- 
ing a man of observation, I began to turn my 
attention to the other end of the dunkey, and 
hope sort of come springin’ up in my heart 
again. I noticed that when he brayed he 
lifted his tail. Now, I said, I can do it — if I 
can only keep his tail down, he can’t lift up 
105 


The Prayers of the Congregation, 

his voice. So I went to work and I hung a 
stone to his tail. When he went for to bray 
he felt that tuggin’ away behind ’en and forgot 
all about brayin’ — only stood tryin’ to look 
round and see whatever it was. But very 
soon there he was again, brayin’, brayin’, 
night and day, seemin’ like as if he could n’t 
make enough of it when once he began. So I 
took off the stone and I put up a brick — a 
goodish heavy brick it was, too. But that 
dunkey was worse than ever. That weight 
seemed to give a kind of high pressure to his 
bray, and turned it into a roar — you ’d ’a’ 
think it was a lion.” 

“Yes, yes,” said I, for I had often been 
disturbed by the extraordinary noise of the 
creature. 

Then Mephibosheth took the handker- 
chief and mopped himself as he sighed, “I 
have a-come to the end of my observation 
and understandin’. There is nothing for that 
dunkey but the prayers of the congrega- 
tion.” 

Of course, it was impossible for me to en- 
io6 


The Prayers of the Congregation. 

tertain such a request whatever it might mean 
to the old man. 

‘‘Well,” I said, as I rose, “I must think 
about it, and see what can be done.” And I 
resolved that I would see the squire and talk 
it over with him as soon as I could. 

“ ’T is serious,” said Mephibosheth, rising 
at last and taking his hat. 

“Yes, I know, I know,” I replied ; “that is 
why I must think about it.” 

^ ^ ^ ^ ^ 

The next Saturday morning Mephibosheth 
arrived again. The maid came in half an- 
grily, for she knew how little I cared to be dis- 
turbed at that time. “He would come in, sir, 
and he says he will wait as long as you like.” 

I opened the note she handed me, and 
found another message: ^'Mephibosheth 
Tucker do desire to return thanks. ^T is a 
thing of infinite inscrutability/* 

“Well, well, Mephibosheth,” I said, as I 
hurried into the room, “what does this 
mean?” 


107 


The Prayers of the Congregation, 

He wiped his face with the red handker- 
chief, but I saw the excitement was that of 
some good fortune which had befallen him. 

Infinite inscrutability — that ’s what ’t is, 
and nothing else. He ’s a creature of under- 
standin’ and observation.” 

“What, the squire?” I cried. 

“No, sir, no. But the dunkey!” 

“Yes,” I laughed; “he has had the advan- 
tage of your teaching and training.” 

“Of course, sir; that’s the explanation 
of it.” 

“Well, come — tell me all about it.” 

“It was yesterday. There is n’t no such 
day as Saint Balaam’s Day, is there? — ’cause 
that is what brought it about. I was think- 
ing of him.” 

“Saint Balaam’s Day? No!” I laughed, 
“I do n’t think there is.” 

“Then there ought to be, and it ought to be ' 
yesterday. You see, I was cornin’ round the 
lane, just a-turnin’ into the high road, when 
who should be there but the squire ’pon his 
hunter. Well, no sooner did that dunkey 
io8 


The Prayers of the Congregation, 

catch sight of the squire than he lifted up his 
voice and brayed a bray like thunder, so that 
the squire’s horse shied, and nearly throwed 
him off. 

“ ^Confound that beastly thing!’ says the 
squire; ‘I ’ll kill that dunkeyl’ says he, liftin’ 
up his riding’ whip, and he all so red as fire. 

^‘Then I stopped and held up my hand, for 
it come upon me like a thing give to me, all 
in a minute. ^Your honor,’ I said — (and at 
such times old Mephibosheth could draw him- 
self up into a strange impressiveness, and 
speak with all the solemnity of a prophet) — 
‘Stop, your honor,’ I says, ‘ ’t is serious. 
’T is a message for ’ee that you ’ve got for to 
hear. Once upon a time there was a message 
sent by a dunkey to a man, and it was a 
reproof that cost him a broken foot, and he 
would have done well for to mind it so long 
as he lived. And seemin’ to me this here is a 
message for your honor. If you can’t tell 
what that dunkey is sayin’ I shall have to tell 
you ; for I do knaw — iss, I do knaw. And ’t is 
for your good, too.’ ” 


109 


The Prayers of the Congregation, 

Then Mephibosheth rose from the chair, 
and drawing up his great length, he stretched 
out his arm with forefinger pointed, as if he 
saw the squire still, and spoke slowly, with 
long pauses between each word, as he told me 
what he had said. 

‘Am I not a ass?’ that’s what he ’s say- 
in’; ‘Am I not a ass, and have I not got the 
feelin’s of a ass, the same as thou hast or 
anybody else, and the speech that my Cre- 
ator gived me, the same as He gived thee 
thine, and gived me for to use too? Thou 
dost curse me for a noosance, dost thee? Take 
care! take care! Cusses is things that do 
come home for to roost. I a noosance! 
Do n’t I work for my master, and ’arn his 
livin’ for ’en, and do what he do tell me, and 
go where he do send me? And all the time 
thou hast a lot of paycocks up there that is n’t 
no good to nobody, a-screecherin’ and’ goin’ 
on with uglier old noises than all the dunkeys 
in the parish! Hast thou not a kennel of dogs 
howlin’ and barkin’ and growlin’, a-kept for 
thy pleasure and nobody’s profit, that I can 


no 


The Prayers of the Congregation. 

see? Has thou not a passle of cocks that do 
craw and craw, wakin’ up all the cocks of the 
parish, and they spreadin’ the noise all over 
the country-side, so that folks can’t sleep for 
them after daybreak? And rabbits! — dost 
thou knaw how they do eat up my master’s 
verbenas and steal the meat out of his garden, 
and he never paid for all the damage they do 
do! Shame ’pon thee, squire! shame ’pon 
thee for cussin’ my master’s one poor little ewe 
lamb, so to speak, for a noosance, when thou 
hast so many!’ ” 

Mephibosheth sat down and became once 
more disjointed as usual, whilst he felt for his 
red handkerchief, for he had spoken with an 
exhausting earnestness. 

‘Well, sir, it went home to ’en and touched 
’en. ‘Mephibosheth,’ says the squire, ‘if thy 
dunkey do think all that, ’t is a pity he can’t 
say it so well as his master. I will never say 
another word against that dunkey so long as 
I do live. And I wish ’ee good morning.’ 
‘Good morning, your honor,’ I said, ‘and I 
am thankful you ’ve heeded the message.’ ” 

III 


The Prayers of the Congregation, 


I rose and grasped the old man’s hand. 
‘‘I am very glad, Mephibosheth, it has ended 
so pleasantly,” I said. 

‘‘Iss, passen, but I want for to return 
thanks, for ’t is a thing of Infinite Inscruta- 

bilityr 


II2 


I 


THE HAND ON THE 


LEVER. 


”3 


8 


The Hand on the Lever. 


I HAD been lecturing at a town in the far 
north of England, and, having to get south 
that night, was sitting waiting for the night 
mail. The door opened, and I, thinking it 
was some passenger, did not turn my head 
from the book I was reading; for, the night 
being cold, I had made myself comfortable in 
front of the fire. Suddenly I found a hand 
laid somewhat heavily on my shoulder, and 
turned to find a most singular-looking man, 
who held out his hand for a handshake. He 
wore a cap made of an otter-skin, the head of 
the creature fixed in front with a pair of glar- 
ing eyes and with a grim smile on the half- 
opened mouth. The man spoke with a dia- 
lect that completely baffles spelling. 

^‘My nom is Wobet Wobets. Ah ’m a 
bwond ploockt from th’ bownin’.” The “r” 
was turned into a g, pronounced as a hard 
guttural that ended with an aspirate. 

IIS 


The Hand on the Lever, 

Slowly I felt my way through the words 
into a more familiar English, and rendered 
them thus — “My name is Robert Roberts, a 
brand plucked from the burning.” He stood 
by the fire, short of stature and bow-legged; 
the arms were singularly long. His little, 
humorous face was not only heavily scarred, 
but the scars were deep blue, as if with grains 
of gun-powder or dust of coal, giving the 
efifect of a tattoo. 

“I was wondehin’ if oo’d wog bonds wi’ 
me.” Then turning to a face that I had just 
caught sight of outside the window he cried 
in a loud voice: “I told you so — it ’s aw reet.” 

I must give up the attempt to reproduce 
the dialect. The man rubbed his hands as if 
in triumph. 

“I knew you would as soon as I saw you — 
yon chap said you would n’t, but I knew bet- 
ter,” he went on merrily. “I can tell. There’s 
folks that can’t, but I can. It ’s born in me. 
You can’t learn it, and you can’t teach it, and 
if it is n’t born in a man he can’t get it nohow. 
I was never deceived in neither of them.” 
ii6 


The Hand on the Lever, 

He paused a moment, and a laugh shut his 
eyes up into a merry twinkle. 

^^Do you know what the other of them is? 
— for there ’s two. There ’s parsons — I can 
tell them by looking at them, read them like a 
book — and a good deal better, for I was never 
much at letters. But the other of them I can 
tell by listenin’, not by looks, looks is no good 
there. Do you know what ’t is?” 

‘‘No,” I said, glad to have the hour of my 
waiting relieved by so singular and chatty a 
visitor. “No, I can’t think what it is.” 

“Pigs.” 

“Ah,” I laughed. “You are a judge of 
parsons and pigs then.” 

“Well, I did n’t mean to put the two so 
close as that, you know. May be ’t is true of 
all dumb animals that you know them, so to 
speak, by their speech. But pigs is my line 
week-a-days, and parsons Sundays. And I 
know a pig by his speech and a parson by his 
looks.” 

“I am afraid I do not understand their 
language,” I said. “I mean the pigs.” 

117 


The Hand on the Lever, 

“I dare say not. You see, you never had to 
study it; but I had, same as you had to learn 
Latin and Greek. To look at a lot of pigs you 
would think they was all so much alike as a 
row of pins or a load of bricks. But, bless 
your heart, they ’re as different a§ Christians. 
There ’s pigs that will be ripe as gooseberries 
in three months^ and there ’s pigs that you can 
spend twice as much victuals on and only get 
half so much to show for it.” 

‘^And how do you know them?” I asked. 

“Well, it is n’t everybody that I would put 
up to it,” he smiled. “But it is n’t your line so 
to speak. You see, I carry a carrot or two in 
my pocket, and holds it out to ’em. One will 
come rushing up with a laugh like as if the 
thought of it tickled his insides. You can hear 
what he says all so plain as if it was spoke to 
a man : ^That ’s a good ’un, that is ; I should 
like a cart-load of that sort;’ and he grunts a 
thank’ee all the time. Another will come 
along slow and solemn, and poke a long snout 
and sniff at it with a snort — ‘Call that a carrot? 
’T is n’t not hardly worth the trouble of eat- 

ii8 


The Hand on the Lever. 


ing ; just better than nothing, that ’s all.’ Give 
me the first, says I, I know ’em by their speech 
same as I know parsons by their looks.” 

There was a long pause as he sat looking 
into the fire, and it was with quite another tone 
that he began again. He had been leaning 
against the mantelpiece, but now he took a 
chair and sat down, putting his cap on the 
table. 

“I am a brand plucked from the burning,” 
he said very solemnly. “I am sure you would 
like to hear about it.” 

‘T should, indeed,” I replied. 

^^You know what it says — he was dead and 
is alive again; he was lost and is found. 
That ’s me/* 

Again he sat looking into the fire, and I 
saw the glistening of a tear in his eye. The 
sound of an engine rushing through the station 
broke the silence. He looked up with a smile. 

^^Tremendous power there — to go right or 
go wrong — to drag a train or to burst up with 
mischief and murder. And to think a man 
can manage it with a hand on the lever.” 

119 


The Hand on the Lever. 

There came again a humorous twinkle on 
his face. 

“I wish you could see my wife, sir; that ’s 
the hand that managed me, held on to the 
lever when the engine was on the line and 
when it was off, held on like grim death; 
never would give up, God bless her! I have 
made it up to her as well as I could.” 

He took up the poker and stirred the fire 
into a more vigorous blaze. ‘‘Yes, it is the 
wife what done it — and that — that/^ and he 
pointed to the fire with the poker. “A brand 
plucked from the burning.” 

Then he leaned back in the chair and went 
on without a break to the end of the story. 

“Poacher and drunkard, that is what I was 
— drunkard and poacher. And between the 
two I spent half my time in prison. You see, 
I was a handy man with my fists. Give me a 
drop of drink and I was all for a fight in a 
minute. But that wife, there she was waiting 
for me when I come home, no matter what 
o’clock it was. And every day she would kneel 
and pray for me, so hopeful and peaceful as if 


120 


The Hand on the Lever, 


she ’d married a saint. Now it was a hot 
supper, and now it was a good breakfast wait- 
ing till I come in, and she slaving the flesh ofif 
her bones to get it. There she would be at 
prison gate when I come out, with never a 
word of complaining. If she had only nagged 
a bit, or let out at me somehow, I could have 
stood it. But to see her dear face growing 
whiter and thinner, but with never less of a 
smile for me when I came; to see her dear 
form shrinking thinner and thinner, and she 
never saying a word to anybody but God — for 
she and God they was thick, sir, they was — it 
made me feel that mad with myself that I just 
went off for a drink to drown the thoughts of it 
all. That is the way with the devil of drink — 
you Ve got to drink to forget the curse of it. 

“Well, it was a night in February. It was 
a full moon. A bitter north-easter had been 
blowing in from the sea all day. I had gone 
round to the public-house, and had had a glass 
or two, when a stranger came in, a surly, 
quarrelsome fellow, that put up my back 
directly. He began to grumble at this and at 
I2I 


The Hand on the Lever, 

that, said the place was dirty, and the beer 
was bad, and the company was low, and the 
town was a mean set, and the whole county 
was a disgrace to what he called civilization. 
The missus of the place told him that if he 
did n’t like it he could go somewhere else, and 
he up and flung his impudence at her. Well, 
I caught sight of her face, and I knew in a 
minute what she wanted, and I gave her a 
wink so much as to say, Wou leave this 
gentleman to me.’ I had had just enough 
to set my fighting blood afire, so to 
speak. 

“ ‘Beg pardon, sir,’ I says, touching my 
head all so civil and humble as could be, ‘you 
don’t happen to be a dog fancier, do you?’ 
says I. 

“ ‘No,’ says he, all so snappish as could be. 
‘I suppose you are — you look like one.’ 

“ ‘I am, sir,’ says I. ‘I just am.’ 

“ ‘Well, what if you are?’ says he. 

“ ‘Yes, sir,’ says I. ‘I can tell a dog that 
can fight when I see one, and I can tell a dog 
that can’t — that can snarl and growl, and then 


122 


The Hand on the Lever. 


put his tail between his legs and run away 
with a howl, before you can get a stroke at 
him.’ 

‘What has that got to do with me?’ says 
he, red as a turkey-cock. 

“ ‘A good deal,’ says I, getting up and 
coming towards him with my fists square. ‘I 
think there ’s one of that snarling sort stand- 
ing where you are.’ 

“Well, of course, there was a row, and we 
went outside and settled it in the moonlight — 
which was more than he did for the drink. 
He got so much outside that he did n’t want to 
go in again. When I came back to the land- 
lady there was a hot glass of grog waiting for 
me, hot and stiff; and when that was done 
there was another. 

“When I came to start for home, well, I 
must have been pretty far gone. The cold was 
terrible, and the road was slippery. It was 
snowing, there was some inches on the ground 
and I s’pose I must have slipped down and 
was too stupid to pick myself up again. At 
any rate, there I was lying in the road knowing 
123 


The Hand on the Lever. 

nothing, and the snow coming down thick and 
steady, and the cold terrible, terrible.” 

For a moment he turned to the fire, then 
in a tone of deepest solemnity he whispered: 
“Her hand was on the lever, sir, bless her, or 
I should have gone. 

“Well, it chanced that night that a party of 
young men had been giving a kind of nigger 
entertainment out in the country, and after 
they had supper were driving home. It was 
pretty well midnight before they got near to 
the town, and then one of them happened to 
catch sight of me lying there half-buried in 
the snow. 

“They stopped the trap and came over to 
the side of the road where I was. ^He ’s 
dead,’ they said, for I was all stiff and stark 
with the cold, and there was not a sign of life 
in me. Of course I knew nothing, and might 
well have been dead for all I knew about it. 
They lifted me in their arms and laid me 
along the bottom of the trap, and then drove 
to the police station. The sergeant was sitting 
fast asleep before a blazing fire. They woke 
124 


The Hand on the Lever, 

him up, and then brought me in and laid me 
on the floor. ‘Yes, he ’s dead, poor chap,’ 
said the sergeant. ‘ ’T is Bob Roberts — ^we 
shall never be troubled with him any more. 
You had better go up for the doctor at once, 
one of you fellows.’ 

“While one of them was gone, the rest were 
all standing round, when the sergeant noticed 
a little twitch of my mouth, and another saw 
my arm move. 

“ ‘Why he ’s living,’ they cried, ‘after all.’ 
Then they took off their coats and flung them- 
selves down, and began to strip off my clothes, 
rubbing me and smacking me, to bring me 
round. The doctor came in to find a dozen 
fellows with black faces kneeling there work- 
ing with might and main, while the sergeant 
shoveled on the coals and the great fire went 
leaping and roaring up the chimney. 

“ ‘Yes,’ said the doctor. ‘I believe we shall 
save him yet; get some hot water, as hot as 
you can.’ 

“A great jar of scalding water was put 
down at my feet, and cloths dipped in 
125 


The Hand on the Lever, 

the scalding water were laid upon my 
chest. 

**Then, sir, I woke! 

“I looked about me. I could never tell in 
any words the fright that came upon me. 
Here was a great blazing fire — here was this 
burning jar, and these cloths like flames of 
fire about me — here were these fellows with 
their black faces slapping and punching and 
rubbing me. 

“I groaned, for I thought I was in 

well, where I deserved to be. I caught sight 
of the sergeant. ‘You here too,’ I cried. 

“ ‘Of course, where else did you expect 
to see me?” 

“ ‘Well, nowhere, I s’pose, but I did n’t 

know you were ’ and before I could get 

it out there I saw the doctor. Everybody 
knew what a good man he was, — never a 
poor body in the place day nor night that 
the doctor was not ready to help. “O, doc- 
tor, doctor,’ I groaned, ‘ ’t is terrible, terrible 
— is ’nt it?’ 

“ ‘What is terrible?’ says he. 

126 


The Hand on the Lever, 

‘‘ ‘Why, that you should be down here 
amongst these devils.’ 

“Then he saw what I meant, and laughed. 
‘No, no, thank God, you are not there,’ he 
said. ‘But you were never so near it as you 
were to-night. And you will never be so near 
again without going there,’ says he. ‘It ought 
to be a warning to you.’ 

“Then I sat up and began to see things a 
bit clearer and heard of all that had happened. 
Within an hour or so I felt pretty right again. 
They wanted me to have a glass of hot brandy 
and water before I set out again for home, but 
the thought of it seemed to burn me like the 
fire I fancied I had been in. ‘I can never 
touch it again, I shall die first,’ I said. 

“ ‘That ’s right,’ said the doctor, for he had 
not left me. ‘That ’s right ; I ’1 go back with 
you, and see you safe home — it is in my way.’ 

“When I got to my house, there was a light 
upstairs, and I crept up as quiet as I could. 
There was my wife kneeling down at the bed 
with just a shawl about her, and I heard her 
praying for me. She looked up with her face 
127 


The Hand on the Lever. 

whiter than ever, and her great eyes staring 
with fright. There were tears on her cheek. 
She rose up slowly and came towards me, put- 
ting out her arms to take hold of me. 

“T thought you were dead!’ she whis- 
pered. T dreamed that you were.’ 

was/ I said, frightened at her white 

face. 

“ T have been praying to God for hours,’ 
she whispered, ^that He would save you to- 
night from something — I did n’t know what.’ 

^He has,’ I said. 

“Then she did what she had never done 
before — she put her face against my neck, and 
sobbed and sobbed her very heart out. 

“I took her up in my arms — O, sir, she 
was wasted almost to nothing. I wrapped the 
shawl about her and held her to myself as 
tight as I could. Then she seemed to turn all 
cold, and I thought she was dead. It was me 
who prayed then, prayed with all my soul. I 
slipped down upon my knees with her in my 
arms and her head on my shoulder, and I 
vowed if God would spare me that dear life, 
128 


The Hand on the Lever, 

that my life should be His. 'My life for hers, 
my God,’ I cried, 'my life for hers.’ Then 
slowly she came out of the faint. 

" 'Are you praying. Bob?’ said she. 

" 'No, my dear,’ I said, and my voice 
choked with great gladness. 'I was, but I 
am praising Him now.’ 

" 'Let us praise Him together, then,’ said 
she. And we did — ^we did. 

" 'My dear,’ said I, as we rose. 'Can you 
remember what it says? He was dead and 
is alive again; he was lost and is found. 
That ’s me/ 

" 'Go on,’ said she, with her arm about my 
neck, as if to make sure that she had got me. 
'Go on,’ says she, 'to what it says next.’ 

" 'I can’t remember it,’ I said. 

^^^And they began to be merry/ 

"I ’ve made it up to her, sir, from that day 
to this, bless her. But there ’s your train. 
And I must be going; she’ll wonder wher- 
ever I am.” 


9 


129 









THE TURF STEALER. 



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The Turf Stealer. 


Uncle Jonathan had got home his load 
of turf from the moors for the winter, and 
had safely stowed it away in the wooden shed 
by the back door, handy for fetching as it was 
wanted. But the stock was diminishing more 
rapidly than could be accounted for. He was 
the last man to suspect anybody was old Uncle 
Jonathan Brimacombe, but slowly even he 
was compelled to think that somebody, who 
had no right to it, was helping himself to 
the turf. 

The matter was discussed as they sat at 
supper in the kitchen. 

“Father, seemin’ to me, they peats is goin’ 
terrible quick,” said one of the daughters com- 
ing in with an armful. 

“They be, sure enough,” said the other 
daughter, who was sitting at the table. 

“They ’m goin’ dishonest, to my thinkin’,” 
said the rosy servant maid. 

133 


The Turf Stealer. 


“I wonder who ’tis then,” said old Uncle 
Jonathan. 

Far down at the table sat Zekiel Odgers, 
the carpenter, who lived in the village, but 
having done a day’s work at the place, came 
in to share the supper. He was an odd- 
looking man, lean and long-faced. One eye a 
fixture, seeing only the tip of his sharp, red 
nose, the other eye making up for it by 
looking all ways at once. He was busily 
clearing a huge pasty, for though he did 
no credit to his victuals, it was wonderful 
that so thin a man could stow away so 
large a quantity. It was with a big bit of 
the pasty still projecting in his cheek, that 
he put in his say. 

‘^Who is it?” grunted Zekiel, “Well I 
shan’t name no names. But if anybody said 
it was Nicky Blewitt I shouldn’t go for to 
contradict them.” 

“Yes, of course, ’tis Nicky Blewitt right 
enough,” said all at the table. 

“No, no,” said Uncle Jonathan, “do n’t ’e 
condemn the man without any evidence.” 

134 


The Turf Stealer, 


^^Evidence!” laughed the eldest daughter. 
“His character is evidence enough.’’ 

It was one of the great mercies that the 
village had such a one as Nicky Blewitt. 
He was always at hand, affording a ready 
explanation of whatever went astray. Many 
a pilferer lived in peace, knowing that the 
blame would certainly be laid upon Nicky. 
And very largely it was Nicky’s own fault — 
he actually invited suspicion, a lazy, drinking 
poacher — the one man in the parish who had 
seen the inside of a county jail. 

That night Uncle Jonathan sat in his chair 
by the kitchen fire, when all the others had 
gone to bed. From his seat it was easy to 
look out on the door of his shed. He had put 
out the candle, resolving to watch, but almost 
immediately fell asleep. An hour afterwards 
he woke, and was surprised to find himself not 
in his bed ; he really could not understand why 
he had staid. As he rose to go, he chanced to 
look out of the window, and started. Through 
the cracks of the door where the peat was 
stored there was a light. He crept forth 

135 


The Turf Stealer, 

noiselessly and opened it There, kneeling 
over a sack half filled with peat, the lantern 
at his side, was Zekiel Odgers, the carpenter. 
With a spring he made for the door, but Uncle 
Jonathan set himself firmly against it Then 
Zekiel fell trembling on his knees and gasped. 
^‘Aw, maister, forgive me this time, and I ’ll 
never do it no more!” 

^^No, no, Zekiel, I shan’t forgive ’e at all,” 
laughed Uncle Jonathan, ‘finish your job 
like a man. You ’ve come for a load of peat, 
and you shall have ’em, so many as you can 
carry. Here, I will hold the lantern for ’ee. 
Make haste and fill up your sack — ’t is getting 
late.” 

But the carpenter could not stir. ‘^No, 
maister, no. Do ’ee let me go I I ’m that 
tremblin’ all over, that I can’t lift one,” and 
the perspiration streamed off him as he spoke. 

‘‘Nonsense, Zekiel, fill up the sack and 
make haste about it.” 

“I can’t, maister. You may kick me or 
beat me, but I can’t lift one of they peats to 
save my life.” 


136 


The Turf Stealer. 


^‘Well, then, you hold the lantern,” 
said Uncle Jonathan, “and I ’ll do it 
for ’ee.” 

“No, maister. No, that’s worse still,” 
gasped the miserable Zekiel. “Aw, dear, 
dear!” Then with trembling hands, and 
wiping the perspiration from his face with 
his sleeve, he slowly filled the sack. 

“Your sack is terrible small,” said Uncle 
Jonathan — “ ’t is n’t worth while to come so 
far and stay so late for so little.” Snatching 
up another sack, the old man flung it beside 
the carpenter. 

“Aw, maister, I can’t, I ’m nearly dead.” 

Certainly the carpenter looked it, gasping 
with agony, trembling from head to foot; his 
knees tottered under him, and it seemed as if 
he must have fallen. 

“You ’re terrible modest,” said Uncle 
Jonathan. “Well, if you won’t have no 
more, I s’pose we had better be going. I ’ll 
light ’ee home with the lantern.” 

“Aw, no, maister, do n’t ’ee, please,” 
gasped Zekiel. 


137 


The Turf Stealer. 

“Nonsense, I must. ’T is pitch dark. 
Take up your load and come on.” 

Zekiel gathered all his strength and 
started, staggering under the weight of the 
sack. They had gone about half way to the 
carpenter’s house when the load fell from his 
back, and the turfs lay scattered on the road. 

“Maister, I believe I be dyin’,” groaned 
Zekiel, bent and trembling from head to foot. 
A man was passing, and Uncle Jonathan held 
up the lantern, and the light fell full on the 
face of Nicky Blewitt. 

“Nicky, come and help for to pick up this 
here load of peat, will ’ee? Zekiel Odgers is 
tookt bad.” 

“Iss, Uncle Jonathan,” cried Nicky, “of 
course I will.” 

“You might carry them home for him,” 
said Uncle Jonathan; “he ’s terrible bad.” 

They had scarcely crossed the threshold of 
the door before the carpenter fell down in a 
dead faint. 

“Well, good-night, Nicky, and thank ’ee,” 
said Uncle Jonathan. 

138 


The Turf Stealer. 


Nicky watched Uncle Jonathan out of 
sight, and then crept back to Zekiel’s house. 

^‘He ’s terrible drunk,” said Nicky, “and 
ought to be punished for it.” And taking the 
load of turf on his back, he hurried away to 
his own house. Half an hour later, Zekiel’s 
door was opened and an empty sack was flung 
on the floor, where it was found the next 
morning. 

“I can’t make out what come to they turfs,” 
said the carpenter. “It must have been that 
Uncle Jonathan took them back again.” 


139 


I 




t 


“TERRIBLE EXPENSIVE.” 












‘‘Terrible Expensive.” 


I. 

Fetter Polkinghorne’s mother was 
dead, poor dear! 

So long as she lived she saw to “the boy 
Fetter,” as she called him, all her days; saw 
to the garden, and saw to the house, and to 
Fetter himself, so that he wanted for nothing. 

She had done it all so regularly, and with 
so little ado, that Fetter had come to think 
that it all came somehow of itself — “so regular 
as the clock” — and by a similar mechanical 
process, except that there was no winding up, 
which the clock never failed to receive the last 
thing on Saturday night, as old Mrs. Polking- 
horne went to bed. 

But when his mother died it was as if the 
clock had stopped. So long as Fetter could 
remember — and that was a good fifty years — 
the garden was always prosperous, gay with 

143 


^^Terrible Expensive/^ 

flowers, and filled with vegetables and fruit, 
the envy of the neighbors. And all his 
belongings, linen and other garments, never 
carried a hole or lacked a button. 

But Mrs. Polkingthorne was dead, and 
Better knew it. Knew it more as the days 
went on, until six months had brought things 
to a desperate plight. The garden was all 
weeds. Buttons were lacking, both large and 
small ; there were holes visible and invisible, 
and everything proclaimed, as with a thou- 
sand tongues, the loss that had befallen him. 

“Poor dear mother!” sighed Better, strug- 
gling vainly to thread a needle; “I believe I 
shall have to come to it. There ’s no help for 
it that I can see. It ’s a terrible job — I must 
get a missus.” And Better perspired at the 
difficulties that rose about him, and the still 
more tremendous difficulty to which all 
seemed to point. 

It was late in the summer that Better 
strolled one evening along the village street. 
The children played with happy laughter 
about the gate of the garden. Women who 
144 


**Terrible Expensive/^ 


had done their day’s work and tidied them- 
selves for the evening’s leisure, stood chatting 
over the garden wall. Men, with an air of 
abundant satisfaction, stood in the doorways of 
the white-washed cottages, smoking the pipe 
of peace. Everybody nodded with a pleasant 
‘‘Good-evening” as Peter passed. 

The sight of it all brought afresh the sense 
of his own desolation and want. “There ’s no 
help for it,” he sighed. “I must come to it.” 

At the end of the village was a house some- 
what larger than the rest. The heavy thatch 
hung over the little windows and met the 
clustering roses and clambering jessamine 
that grew thick about the porch. A large 
garden stretched on either side of the little 
path. Here it was that Martha Tregaskis, 
with sun-bonnet loosely hung from her head, 
and sleeves turned up over her bare red arms, 
was busy picking her black currants. 

Fetter leaned upon the low wall of the 
garden, and stood for a minute or two watch- 
ing her. As Martha lifted herself from her 
work she caught sight of him. 
lo 14s 


**Terrible Expensive/^ 


‘‘Good-evenin’, Fetter,” she began, coming 
towards him, for, although the busiest woman 
of the parish, things were not so pressing with 
her that she could not stay for a pleasant chat, 
and the very calm of the summer’s evening 
seemed almost to invite it. 

“You ’ve got some nice black currants, 
Martha Ann,” began Fetter in his slow way. 

“Iss, beautiful — never finer, I b’lieve,” 
and the brisk tone was in every way a con- 
trast to Fetter’s drawl. 

Ficking up the basket she pushed her way 
between the bushes and stood by the wall, 
holding it towards him. 

“Will ’ee have some?” she went on in her 
cheery tones, for a better-hearted woman 
never walked than Martha Ann Tregaskis, as 
everybody knew. “Help yourself. Fetter, 
you ’re welcome.” 

“Thank ’ee, you ’re very kind,” and Fetter 
took a great handful. “Your garden is look- 
ing beautiful,” said Fetter, as he helped him- 
self to the bunches, “beautiful!” And Fetter 
sighed. 


146 


errible Expensive/^ 

Martha Tregaskis stopped and flung a 
snail over the garden wall. 

“Your garden,” she began, “is lookin’ ter- 
rible bad.” 

“Iss, ’tis,” said Fetter, “going to rack and 
ruin — poor mother!” 

“Have some more black currants. Fetter, 
you’re welcome.” Martha Ann held up the 
basket again. 

There came another pause, and Martha 
caught sight of the ragged sleeve of his coat 
as Fetter lifted his hand to his mouth. 

“You do look as if you wanted somebody 
to see to ’ee, too, seemin’ to me.” 

“Iss, iss, ’tis so,” sighed Fetter. “Foor 
mother; I b’lieve I shall have to come to it!” 

Martha Ann drew up the sun-bonnet that 
had slipped back over her head. 

“Why do n’t ’ee get somebody to see to ’ee, 
then. Fetter,” and the tone was one of tender- 
est pity. 

“I b’lieve I must,” sighed Fetter again. 

“Well, have some more black currants. 
Fetter, you ’re welcome 1 You may have some 

147 


\ 

*^Terrible Expensive/* 

to take home with ’ee, if you mind to, only be 
sure and bring back the basket.” 

^^You ’re very good, I ’m sure,” said Fetter, 
whilst Martha busied herself to fill the basket. 
Then she came back and handed it over the 
wall. 

“You may have some more when they ’re 
gone, if you mind to, if you ’ll only bring 
the basket back.” 

“Thank ’ee, Martha Ann,” said Fetter, as 
if his thoughts were elsewhere. 

He set the currants down at his feet, and 
leaned on the low garden wall. Meanwhile 
Martha Ann, loath to waste more time, was 
filling her blue cotton apron with apples. 

Five minutes had passed without a word; 
then Fetter sighed. 

“Iss, iss I must come to it. Foor mother!” 

“Will ’ee have some?” said Martha Ann 
presently, holding out her apron filled with 
rosy quarrendens. “You ’re welcome, Fetter.” 

“Martha Ann,” said Fetter solemnly, 
“how do you think it would sound — T publish 
the banns of marriage between Fetter Folk- 
148 


errible Expensive/* 

inghorne, bachelor, and Martha Ann Tre- 
gaskis, spinster?’ ” 

“Aw,’’ said Martha, with a start and a 
flush upon her rosy cheek. “Terrible sudden, 
isn’t it?” 

“Well, iss,” sighed Fetter; “but I must 
come to it, I must come to it!” 

“Well, lev’ us think about it a bit!” 

“No, there is n’t no time,” said Fetter, tak- 
ing up the basket. “I ’ll go ’long and see par- 
son about it. Good-evening, Martha Ann.” 

“But here. Fetter ” But Fetter had 

turned and started on his way. 

“Well, have another apple, won’t ’ee?” 
cried Martha Ann. 

“Well, I do n’t mind if I do,” sighed Fet- 
ter, and he turned again, sighing still. “Iss, 
iss, I must come to it.” 

“Bring back the basket,” Martha Ann 
called after him, as he went up the leafy lane 
to the vicarage. 

“Good-evenin’, parson,” Fetter began, as 
he sat down in the clergyman’s hall, the basket 
of black currants resting on his knees. 

149 


^^Terrible Expensive/* 

“Good-evening ; good-evening, Fetter,” 
said the vicar. 

“I come to see you about gettin’ married,” 
Fetter began. 

“That ’s right, that ’s right,” said the 
clergyman, rubbing his hands. “I ’m de- 
lighted to hear it.” 

“I Ve got for to come to if,” Fetter sighed. 
“Foor mother!” 

“Well, I am very glad,” the parson went 
on. “I have noticed how much you need 
somebody to see to you. And who is the 
lady?” 

“Well, I have n’t quite made up my 
mind,” drawled Fetter. “Not quite. But I 
was thinkin’ ’bout Martha Ann Tregaskis. 
She ’s a thrifty woman and got some nice 
black currants and all.” 

“Admirable, admirable,” said the parson, 
drawing himself up, and rubbing his hands. 
“You couldn’t do better! A thrifty woman, 
as you say. Not a better-hearted woman in 
the parish.” Then the parson laid his hand 
on Fetter’s shoulder. “And I ’ve no doubt, 
150 


^^Terrible Expensive/^ 

Petter, with a little something put by for a 
rainy day, you know.” 

“Iss, iss,” sighed Petter. ‘‘I Ve got for to 
come to it.” 

“Well, now,” said the vicar, “I shall 
require the names of the parties interested.” 

“Iss, sir. Well, sir, there ’s my name — 
Petter Polkinghorne.” 

“And the lady’s name is Martha?” 

“Well, I have n’t quite made up my mind 
— but s’pose you do say Martha Ann Tre- 
gaskis, for the present,^* 

“Petter Polkinghorne and Martha Ann 
Tregaskis,” wrote the parson, repeating the 
names. 

^^For the present/* put in Petter. 

“O, no, no,” said the vicar, as if that were 
not to be entertained. “Well, now, the 
banns will be called three times, you know, 
and then you can get married; the sooner 
the better.” 

“Well, good-evenin’, then, sir,” said Petter, 
rising, and putting his arm through the handle 
of the basket as he moved towards the door. 


^^Terrible Expensive/* 


“O! but stop, stop,” said the vicar, “my 
good man, you have forgotten ; there is a half- 
crown to pay!” 

Fetter put the basket down and lifted his 
hand to his ear as if in doubt. “What, sir?” 

“There ’s half a crown to pay,” the vicar 
repeated in a louder tone. 

The hand fell as Fetter groaned, “Half a 
crown I half a crown 1 Dear, dear, ’t is terrible 
expensive. You could n’t say nothin’ less, 
could ’ee, sir, for the first time?” 

“O, dear no,” said the vicar, with a tone of 
slight annoyance. “It ’s half a crown.” 

Fetter thrust his hand into his pocket 
and drew out some money, mostly coppers. 
“Well,” and Fetter sighed, “there ’s my 
fifteen pence, and to-morrer I ’ll send up 
Martha Ann with her fifteen pence.” 

“No, no,” said the vicar. “That won’t do 
at all — it’s half a crown!” 

“Well, that would be half a crown, 
would n’t it, sir?” drawled Fetter. “One an’ 
threepence from me, an’ one an’ threepence 
from she. But there ’t will come to the same 
152 


**Terrible Expensive.** 

thing.” And Fetter added the rest of the 
money. ‘‘Martha Ann can pay me her one 
and threepence to-morrer when I take back 
the basket.” 

A week had passed, and the banns had 
been called once, when Fetter went up to the 
vicarage again. 

“Come up to see you about they banns, 
parson,” he began. 

• “Yes,” said the vicar. “I hope there ’s 
nothing wrong.” 

“No, nothing wrong, only I wanted to 
know if you could change one of they names, 
an’ not the whole o’ that — only a little 
bit!” 

“Whatever do you mean?” said the vicar, 
half indignant. 

“Well, what I was thinkin’ is this ’ere. 
Would you be kind enough to scratch out 
‘Martha Ann,’ an’ put in ‘Liza?’ Her sister 
have a corned home, and she ’s rather younger 
an’ better lookin’, seemin’ to me, than Martha 
Ann.” 

“Well, well,” said the clergyman, “it’s 

153 


*^Terrible Expensive/^ 

monstrous, monstrous! And besides there’ll 
be a half a crown to pay, you know.” 

‘‘A half a crown,” gasped Fetter, fright- 
ened. “Put up the price, have ’ee? Why last 
week it was only half a crown for two names, 
and this is only one name an’ not the whole 
of that.” 

“But the whole thing has to be done de 
novo/^ 

“Awl” gasped Fetter again. “I s’pose 
that ’s terrible expensive. A half a crown,” 
said Fetter to himself, jingling the coins in his 
trousers pockets, “an’ I could n’t ask Liza to 
pay me her one an’ threepence, because 
Martha Ann paid me her one an’ threepence 
when I took the basket back.” 

Slowly Fetter rose and turned. “Well, 
then, sir, lev it ’bide, lev it ’bide. is n't 
worth it!' 

The vicar watched him out of the door, 
and then sat for an hour boiling with indig- 
nation, and occasionally boiling over. 

“The mean wretch!” he repeated. “To 
think that Martha Ann Tregaskis should 

154 


errible Expensive/^ 

throw herself away on such a miserable fel- 
low! Well, well, the thing’s altogether past 
my comprehension.” 

When the wedding did take place Fetter 
Polkinghorne certainly looked the most 
wretched bridegroom that ever went forth to 
win a bride. He had gone so far as to get a 
new coat, but that availed only to make the 
nether garments look the more disreputable. 
Without a collar, he wore a rusty black tie that 
failed to hide the frayed shirt-front beneath 
it, whilst his boots bore a thick crust of mud. 

“Fetter Folkinghorne, wilt thou have this 
woman to be thy wedded wife?” asked the 
parson sharply; for he could ill conceal his 
regret that such a woman should waste herself 
on such a man. 

The bridegroom did not reply aloud, but 
under his breath said to himself — “Iss, I must 
come to it, I s’pose. Foor mother!” 

Martha Ann nudged him. “You must say 
T will.’ ” 

“I will,” groaned Fetter, in a lamentable 
voice, like Darius of old. 


^^Terrible Expensive/* 


In the village it was much more than a nine 
days’ wonder. The groups of neighbors stood 
gossiping together on the topic of the wedding 
and the verdict was unanimous. “Whatever 
was Martha Ann thinking about? She for 
to go and take up ’long with a man like 
that!” 

It was in the little shoemaker’s shop that 
three or four women met whilst the topic was 
still fresh in the parish. 

David Glasson sat tapping away at his 
work; the big spectacles, fastened by a black 
band round his ears, hung at the tip of his 
nose. His mouth kept time with the hammer, 
his under lip, which somewhat projected, 
thrusting itself forward at each pull of the 
wax end. He was a widower, for whom an 
elder sister kept house. 

“Well, who would ever have thought it of 
her?” began the neighbor from next door. 

“I can’t make it out, for the life of me,” 
said another. '^He!** And the word was 
spoken with infinite contempt. 

“Iss, and a dozen well-to-do men that 
156 


Terrible Expensive/^ 

would have been proud to have her if she ’d so 
much as gived them a look, and she never 
would! To think of it! Never took the least- 
est bit of notice, not of one of them, well- 
to-do as they was, and wanted to make her so 
comfortable as she could live. He Ve got his 
mother’s old miserly ways — never would leave 
’en have a ha’penny to spend if she could help 
it. No wonder she left a tidy lump in to the 
bank.” 

^Tt is a thing past explainin’,” said an- 
other; and they all agreed. 

^What do you make of it, David?” asked 
the sister, turning to the shoemaker. 

David Glasson hammered on as if he had 
not heard, until he had finished that job ; then 
he set down the hammer and looked over the 
heavy brass rim of his spectacles. 

“What do a man know about the ways of 
a woman? It was one of the mysteries that 
Solomon gived up. And he had a goodish bit 
of experience ’long with ’em too.” Then he 
took a waxed thread and began to bore with 
the awl. 


157 


^^Terrible Expensive, 

‘^They say that Farmer Ash in to Goon- 
vean made her an offer when she was younger. 
Iss, and she would n’t have nothin’ to do with 
him, same as all the rest.” 

The shoemaker stopped and looked up 
again. “Well, I will tell ’ee, if you mind to, 
what I do think.” 

“What then?” asked the neigbors, know- 
ing how much easier it was for David to see 
things than to tell of what he saw. 

David pushed the things a little out of the 
way as if he needed room. 

“Well, there ’s women that ’s born mothers, 
and there ’s women that ’s made mothers. 
There ’s women that do come into the world 
with it in them ; and there ’s women that can’t 
find it until they ’re grown up. And that ’s 
Martha Ann Tregaskis — a mother born.” 

David’s eyes were turned from the neigh- 
bors and were looking through the little 
window to the sky, away beyond where the 
fields with their hedgerows went sloping to 
the stream, and then went sloping upwards 
to the distant woods. 

158 


''Terrible Expensive/* 

“I can mind her all her life, bless her, and 
I can see her all so plain as if ’twas only 
yesterday — a little maid of eight or nine, with 
so pretty a face as ever God Hisself could 
make.” 

David staid a moment, for his mind had 
wandered back for forty years to a memory 
undimmed for him. His wife had died when 
the first baby was born, and three years later 
the little one itself was taken. 

‘‘Martha Ann was born a mother. To me 
she was more like one of God’s own angels 
than anythin’ else. Before she went to school 
of a mornin’ she would be round to see the 
baby, and so soon as school was done, she was 
here again. And that little one knowed her 
an’ would lie in her arms and look into her 
face and laugh — never so happy as when she 
was there. And the last to see her every night 
was Martha Ann. The neighbors was all 
very kind, but I never needed nobody to see to 
the child when that li’l angel was about. And 
when the child was took away I know that to 
Martha Ann it was like as if it was her own — 


159 


^^Terrible Expensive/^ 


her own — that was gone. For years she would 
go to that grave and put the little bunch of 
flowers upon it. A real mother that maid is, 
and always was.” 

For a moment David took up his work as 
if to begin it again, but he held it idly in 
his hand. 

“See how she have always tended to the 
sick night and day — nothing good enough for 
them — and nursed them to the last. Why, 
old Mrs. Polkinghorne’s last breath was a 
blessin’ her.” 

“Well, iss, that ’s true, o’ course,” said a 
neighbor woman, “but for all that I can’t 
see whatever Martha Ann should go to 
marry a man like that for — she couldn’t 
love ’en.” 

“Love ’en,” said David slowly, “no, per- 
haps not, perhaps not; but she was sorry for 
’en. If it was n’t love it was pity, and that is 
next door to love sometimes. Yes, sorry for 
’en,” added David after a pause, and he turned 
to take up his work again. 


i6o 


^^Terrible Expensive/^ 


11 . 

A YEAR had passed and another summer 
come. Fetter’s garden under Martha’s skill- 
ful hands had grown into more than its former 
fruitfulness, and everything was rich in 
beauty. The rosy apples hung thick upon the 
trees, and the currant bushes were heavy with 
their fruit. 

But most wonderful was the change in 
Fetter Folkinghorne himself. ^‘Boy Fetter” 
had grown into the man. In former years the 
mother had done all the thinking and the 
management of ever^^thing, and her son had 
been but a pair of hands to do what she bade 
and a pair of feet to carry out her errands. 
All within him had been stunted and un- 
formed. But now there had come the force 
which had developed him. What the summer 
sunshine had done for the garden Martha’s 
genial presence had done for Fetter. You saw 
it in his walk, the figure erect, he stepped with 
a firmer foot; you saw it in the smile that lit 
his face; you heard it in the new confidence 

II i6i 


**Terrible Expensive/^ 


with which he spoke. There had come into 
his soul a tender thoughtfulness. It was as 
when the showers of April and the sunshine of 
May bring to the thorn the glory of its bloom. 
And in all and over all was a love, almost a 
worship, for his wife’s sweet ways, an adoring 
wonder that such a woman should ever have 
come to be his wife. 

The day’s work was done, and Fetter sat 
on a chair, when Martha called from within, 
‘Tut on your coat, will ’ee. Fetter, and come 
down with me to Mary Tyack’s. I got a bit 
o’ somethin’ nice for her, poor dear; she won’t 
last long, I ’m afraid.” 

“Bless ’ee, Martha Ann,” said Fetter, 
springing up at once, “whatever would folks 
do wi’out ’ee?” 

“Well, better than you could perhaps,” 
laughed the wife, coming out with the basket 
on her arm. 

“Me!” cried Fetter; “bless ’ee, I wish I 
could tell ’ee all that I do think about ’ee, but 
I can’t,” and Fetter tried to tell her what he 
wanted in more than words. 

162 


^^Terrible Expensive/^ 

‘^For shame,” said Martha Ann, arrang- 
ing her bonnet. ‘‘And folks might see ’ee 
an’ all.” 

“I do n’t care if they do,” laughed Fetter, 
with all the recklessness of a boy. “And I 
can’t help it; neither.” 

“You ’re old enough to know better,” whis- 
pered Martha Ann, as her rosy cheeks flushed, 
and the merry twinkle shone in her eyes. 

“I was a year ago,” and Fetter laughed 
again, “but I are n’t since you come — why I ’m 
years younger.” 

So they went on their way to Mary 
Tyack’s. The eldest girl was old enough to 
take her mother’s place, and Martha Ann had 
gone up-stairs to comfort the sick woman. 
Fetter had taken upon his knees the two little 
children — they were twins of some three or 
four years, whose father had died soon after 
they were born. 

“There ’s somethin’ in my pocket for ’ee 
if you can find it,” he said. 

The light hands were busy diving here and 
there, struggling to the depths of Fetter’s 


^^Terrible Expensive, 

pockets. At last they had come upon the 
treasure, and each held a big apple that he 
had plucked for them as he came out of his 
garden. 

A little later Mary Tyack had passed 
away. In was on the day of her death that, 
after Martha Ann had seen to everything that 
was needful, she sat with her husband by the 
kitchen fire, for the autumn evening was 
chilly. 

“Fetter,” she began, “do ’ee love me?” 

“My dear life, I wish I could tell ’ee how 
much.” 

“I ’m fine an’ glad,” said Martha, “for I 
wanted to ask ’ee somethin’.” 

It was plain that Martha was deep in 
thoughts that were serious, almost solemn. 

“What is it, then, my dear?” asked Fetter, 
as he laid his hand tenderly on her shoulder. 

“God has been very good to us,” said 
Martha Ann, looking into the depths of the 
fire. 

Fetter’s eyes brimmed with tears. “I can 
never thank Him enough. 

164 


errible Expensive/^ 

been thinking about Mary’s children. 
My heart is achin’ for ’em,” said Martha 
Ann. 

There was a long pause, which was broken 
by Fetter. '^‘Would ’ee like to have ’em home 
here ’long with us, my dear?” 

^Would you mind. Fetter?” 

“Mind,” said Fetter with a start. “Mind! 
Bless ’ee, my dear, you ’ve been so good to me 
that I feel like as if I wanted to do somethin’ 
good to everybody — I should love it.” 

“You ’re very good. Fetter, I ’m sure,” said 
Martha Ann, “very.” 

“ ’T is your fault, Martha Ann,” said Fet- 
ter, “I do n’t believe there ever was another 
like ’ee — there!” 

It was a few weeks later that the parson 
called one evening and found Fetter in the 
garden with a child on each shoulder, shout- 
ing to him, amidst their bursts of laughter, to 
gallop faster. Red and breathless he came 
upon the vicar. 

“Well, Fetter, I think it ’s splendid of you 
and Martha Ann to take these little ones.” 


errible Expensive/* 


cried Fetter, “ ’t was n’t my doing, 
’twas all Martha Ann.” 

‘‘Ahl” said the vicar. “She is a treasure.” 

“Treasure,” laughed Fetter; “can ’ee 
mind what I said about gettin’ married, sir, 
that it was terrible expensive? Well, she’s 
a tidy heavy woman, but she*s worth her 
weight in gold/* 





1 ! 


. • • ‘ i J 
i. 



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■ p 


I’* 

j % < 


OLD APOLLOS. 


, I 


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I 


1 , 

i ' 







I 


Old Apollos. 

I WAS driving with a friend in New Bruns- 
wick along a delightful valley of some strange 
Indian name. On one side stretched miles of 
forest land, broken here and thefe by a cleared 
patch, in the midst of which stood the wooden 
farmhouse and group of out-buildings, and 
where the fruit-trees and flowers grew with a 
rich luxuriance. 

Nature, as if in pity for the long and bitter 
weather, comes with such a glorious summer 
in this country, and such sunshine, that I think 
of Canada rather as the ^‘Lady of the Blue 
Skies’’ than as the ^^Lady of the Snows.” 

In the woods were moose, and bear, and 
wild-cat, of which those whom I met had 
many stories to tell, especially the men of the 
lumber camp, who lived for some months in 
the remotest part of the forest. 

One told me how that one evening at sunset 
169 


Old Apollos. 


he had lingered behind the rest to finish some 
work, when suddenly he heard, not far away, 
the howl of the wolves. He stood some six 
feet two inches in his stockings, as brave as he 
was big, but on this occasion at any rate he 
was frightened. seized my ax,” said he, 
^^and slipped away in my soft moccasins at a 
pace I had never gone before, and made for 
the camp. I saw no more of the wolves, but 
I got a bit of a scare.” 

Another told me how that sleeping one 
night in the camp, the fire burning at the en- 
trance to keep off the mosquitoes, his bull-dog 
that lay at his side sprang up with a growl. 
He awoke at once, and in the entrance saw by 
the fire-light a bear showing his teeth and 
grunting at the dog, whilst the dog showed his 
teeth with a fierce snarl. ^Tor five minutes 
they stood making ugly faces at each other, 
then the bear turned and went off, with growls 
like distant thunder as he made his way 
through the forest.” 

That faithful dog met with an untimely 
end in his master’s defense. The man had 


170 


Old Apollos. 

wounded a moose, and the infuriated beast 
came rushing upon him, with huge horns and 
all his great bulk. Then it was that the bull- 
dog sprang and seized the moose by the nose. 
Maddened by the pain, the moose galloped 
furiously through the forest, banging the dog 
against the trees as he flung his head violently 
from side to side. The man followed as fast 
as he could, and at last came upon the moose 
utterly spent, with the bull-dog still hanging 
at his nose — dead, but the teeth still kept their 
hold. 

Beguiled by such stories, we drove along 
the shady path. But the sight that was strang- 
est to me was not in the heights where the 
forest stretched. It was in the river at the 
other side — for river it was called — but what- 
ever water entitled it to the name was quite 
invisible. The creek was filled, crammed, 
jammed with huge logs. Great piles of them 
rose up on each other in huge masses, and the 
banks of the stream were piled with them some 
six or eight feet above the river bed. I found 
that in the floods of the spring, when melted 
171 


Old Apollos. 


snows sent the river surging on its way, these 
logs were floated down by the million, and 
secured at the mouth of the river by booms 
and dams. 

Suddenly my mind was diverted from the 
logs as my friend pulled up at a little gate and 
lifted his hat. 

“Good-morning, Salome,” said he. 

An old colored woman who was at work in 
the garden raised herself and took off her hat 
in response. “Good-mornin’, good-mornin’,” 
said she, and the white teeth shone in the 
swarthy face. 

“Where is Apollos to-day?” he asked. 

“O, he ’s ’bout somewheres. ’Polios ain’t 
never out of the way very far, sah.” 

Then with a shrill voice that could be 
heard for a quarter of a mile off she called 
him. “ ’Polios, yere ’s de massa preacher.” 

While we were waiting for ’Polios I was 
introduced as a minister from London. 

“Yes,” said Salome, “I’se Methodist. A 
thousand mercies de good Lord gib ’Polios 
and me, but I bless Him most of all dat He 
172 


Old Apollos, 


ever brought me for to b’long to the blessed 
Medodist A — bom — in — ation.” 

The word was rolled out with infinite 
unction, each syllable lingered over as if it 
were divine. 

Then round from a shed came old ’Polios, 
as finely built a man as I ever saw ; consider- 
ably over six feet in height, with huge shoul- 
ders and massive frame, he was evidently a 
man of enormous strength. His eyes sparkled 
with good humor, and his great mouth was 
fixed in the biggest smile that could ever grow 
on any face. 

A hearty handshake and happy “How 
d ’ye do?” and we were off again. 

“That is Apollos,” said my friend as we 
drove on. “I am glad you have seen him.” 

“A splendid specimen of a man,” I re- 
plied. 

“Yes, and he is a grander man than he 
looks. Some time I will tell you a story about 
him as good as anything you ever heard.” 

It was that evening as we sat in the ve- 
randa, trying to keep away the irritating mos- 

173 


Old Apollos, 

quitoes by the smoke of a cigar, that I re- 
minded my friend of his promise. 

Well (he began) , the man’s great strength, 
enabling him to do the work of two men, and 
his readiness to oblige anybody, anywhere, 
had made him a favorite with the boss of the 
lumber gang, and he reckoned every year upon 
securing the services of Apollos. One year a 
new-comer, on going to work, found himself 
beside the colored man. A surly fellow, he 
turned round and told Apollos to go and work 
somewhere else. He was not going to have 
a miserable nigger alongside of him. He 
never had and he never would, and he cursed 
him with a string of oaths such as only some 
parts of the American continent seem capable 
of producing. 

Apollos looked up gently with a grin, and 
seemed to be thinking how easily he could 
make mincemeat of this stranger. Then, 
drawing himself up to his full height, and 
stretching his shoulders, he leaned on one 
hand on the long tool with which the lumber 
men fix and guide the logs. 

174 


Old Apollos. 


“Guess you ’d better tell the boss ; he sent 
me here/’ said Apollos, and turned quietly to 
his work. 

Away went the surly new-comer full of 
complaint and indignation. “Say, boss, I 
ain’t a-going to stand this, working along with 
a dirty nigger. I never done it yet, and I 
guess I never will. If he do n’t quit, I shall — 
that ’s all.” 

“Well, you may,” said the boss, angrily. 
“Old ’Polios is worth two of such fellows as 
you, and if he ain’t ashamed to work with you 
it ’s just like him — that ’s all. The last man 
who goes out of this gang is ’Polios.” 

Muttering a curse on both boss and negro, 
the man went back to his work. But all that 
day he lost no opportunity of flinging the 
bitterest taunts and insults at the “colored 
devil,” as he called him. Apollos took no 
notice of it all, but worked away at the logs, 
the great smile perpetually lighting up his 
face. 

That evening they gathered after the day’s 
work about the camp fire. Most of the men 
I7S 


Old Apollos 


were sitting around smoking their pipes. 
Apollos lay full length on the ground chew- 
ing a blade of grass, crunching it in his mighty 
jaws, when his enemy came along his way. 

^‘You cussed nigger!” he cried. ‘‘It ’s bad 
enough to work along with a dirty thing like 
you all day, but I ’ll be hanged if I ’ll have 
you in my way when the work is done. Get 
out of this.” Lifting his foot with the heavy 
boot of the lumberman, he gave him a terrible 
kick. For a moment an angry look flashed 
from the negro’s eyes, like a spark that flies 
from the steel at the stroke of the flint; then 
the smile came back again, and he got up and 
moved away, lying down by the side of the 
boss. 

’Polios was a favorite with the men; they 
had all proved his goodness many a time. 

“Look here,” said the boss, springing up, 
“ ’Polios, why do n’t you wring that fellow’s 
neck? You could lick the miserable dog out 
of shape in one minute; and leave him so as 
his wife would n’t know him, and his mother 
would be ashamed to own him.” 

176 


Old Apollos, 

“I would, if I were you,” cried a half 
dozen of the men, to whom nothing would 
have been more acceptable than the excite- 
ment of a fight. 

“Why do n’t you do it, ’Polios?” cried one 
of the men who sat upon a tree stump some- 
what apart from the rest. 

For a minute there was silence. Then 
Apollos took the straw from his mouth, and, 
turning around, said, “I’se gwine to tell you 
why ’Polios could n’t hurt dat man.” 

Slowly he rose, and his great frame 
towered above them all. He lifted the old 
battered straw hat and closed his eyes, then 
he folded his hands together, and spoke in a 
tone of reverence that was awe. 

come to pass in de cool of de day, dat 
^Polios he he in de woods all by his own self. 
And de Lord God Almighty He come walk- 
ing along in de cool of de day, and Him say, 
^ ^Polios! ^PollosF Den me say, ^Here am I, 
Lord.' And de Lord Him say, ^ Where 's dat 
man, thy brudder?' " 

“Brother!” said the fellow. “Brother, in- 
177 


12 


Old Apollos, 


deed.” !But the negro did not hear it. He 
was absorbed in the consciousness of a Divine 
Presence. 

*^Den me hold me peace. And the Lord 
Him say, and His voice tremble like as if He 
very sorry, ^ ^Polios, de Lord God Him give 
you de strength of two men dat you might 
help your brudder, and you go kill your brud- 
der?^ And den de angel write down in de 
book, At repented the Lord God dat He made 
’Polios/'' 

For a moment the negro remained stand- 
ing in silence. Then he opened his eyes and 
the smile came back, and he lay down again, 
plucking another blade of grass and begin- 
ning to chew the juicy end of it. A stillness 
rested upon the men, who smoked on with a 
strange feeling upon them as if the Lord God 
had been in their midst. 

It was but a day or two afterwards that 
the men were at work at a “jam” of timber — 
a piled up mass of logs — when suddenly the 
block broke. It was a moment of great peril 
to all. Before the men could get away the 
178 


Old Apollos, 


mass began to heave and slide. Every man 
knew the danger of the moment, and hurriedly 
scrambling over the logs, stepping carefully on 
one and another as it twisted and turned in the 
torrent, they reached the shore — all save the 
new-comer. He, unused to the thing, stepped 
awkwardly on a bit of timber that rolled over 
with him, and in a moment he was in the 
torrent and swept away under the logs. 

“He is gone!” cried the men. “He will 
never get out of that.” 

Instantly Apollos flung off the big boots, 
plunged into the stream, and dived under the 
logs. 

“The fool,” cried the boss, “to fling away 
his life for a fellow like that!” 

“Two of ’em gone now,” muttered another 
old lumberman; “one was bad enough.” 

Then it was as they watched from the river 
bank they saw the negro’s hand thrust up 
between the logs, struggling to make an open- 
ing. Presently he managed to push up his 
head, and then with his great shoulders and 
almost superhuman strength heaved back the 
179 


Old Apollos, 


pressure of the lumber, and they saw that 
in his other arm he held the white man, the 
head resting against the neck of the negro, 
the face white as death. Then joining 
hands the watchers managed to grasp the 
pair, and they were dragged together to the 
bank. 

^‘The fellow ’s dead,” whispered the men 
to each other. 

“No,” cried Apollos, “de Lord is gwine 
to give dat brudder to me. I’se got de Vic- 
tions of dat.” 

The man was saved, but it was only after 
the most desperate effort on the part of the 
negro. 

When consciousness returned it was to find 
Apollos bending over him as if rubbing his 
own life into the helpless man. 

As the breathing began again audibly, and 
the man languidly opened his eyes, the negro 
arose and took off his hat, whilst with folded 
hands and upturned face his lips moved in 
prayer. Silent for a moment, then the great 
emotion of gladness swept over him and burst 
i8o 


Old Apollos, 


into a mighty shout. ''Hallelujah! And 
de Lord God Him say to all de holy 
angels, 'Fse glad I made brudder ^Polios 
so strong/ ” 

That night the darkness came down upon 
the camp, and all were asleep except one. It 
was the new-comer, who crept over to where 
Apollos lay. The negro was awakened by an 
arm about his neck and the tears of a face 
that bent over him. 

’Polios,” he whispered, choked with 
emotion. 

rudder, brudder, is dat you?” 

^^Brother! no brother of yours. I wish I 
was. ’Polios, I want to do something for 
you — something just tremendous if I could; 
but what can a fellow like me do for the likes 
of you?” 

^‘Brudder,” whispered Apollos, “dere ’s 
two things dat would please dis nigger mo’ 
dan enough.” 

“You can’t ask for nothing I won’t give 
you, ’Polios, if it is my life.” 

“Dem two things dat I wants are easier. 


Old Apollos, 


brudder. First, quit cussing, and den bless de 
good Lord dat give you to me.” 

“But I want to do something for you,” 
urged the man. 

“Dat ’s for me — de best in de world.” 

Never was an oath heard again on that 
man’s lips. Night and morning the new hand 
went gladly away with Apollos for half an 
hour into the woods, and all knew that they 
went to pray. Henceforth it was always 
“Brother Apollos.” 

It was later that, as they sat together, the 
new hand was talking to Apollos of the future. 
“Brother” — and the tone was full of the ten- 
derness and love with which he always spoke 
to the negro — “Brother, I never got a chance 
of knowing much about Church and religion, 
but I should like to belong to yours, for I 
guess I just belong to you myself.” 

“Bless de Lord!” said the old negro as he 
took the white man’s hand in his own great 
grasp. “Den you ’ll just have to come ’long 
with Salome and me, and b’long to the Meth- 
odist A — bom — in — ation.” 

182 


LOVE’S LITTLE HUMORS. 


Love’s Little Humors. 


As THE church clock chimed eight, whilst 
the blue smoke of the houses rose straight up 
in the morning air, Michael Chigwidden 
came out at the side door of his little tailor’s 
shop, his feet shuffling along in a big pair of 
red carpet slippers — he never put on his boots 
till the day’s work was done. He took down 
the shutters, and then went in at the door, his 
hand giving an extra twist to the two flat curls 
into which his hair was brushed over each 
ear — they lent a kind of flourish, a graceful 
finish to his bald head. 

From dawn to dark Michael Chigwidden 
was regulated by the church clock; by its 
quarters he woke, he dressed, he ate and 
drank, he worked, he went to bed, he slept. 
Once, when the clock was out of order and 
stopped for a fortnight, Michael Chigwidden 
was ill — very ill — the only illness of his life. 

185 


Lovers Little Humors. 

People said the stopping of the clock was the 
cause, not a coincidence. 

There are some men who surely never were 
born; the thought of it is absurd; no effort 
of the imagination could ever picture them as 
babies ; they must have been made right off — 
like Adam, finished at once. Such a man was 
Michael Chigwidden — rigid, exact, crystal- 
lized. For such men the years of their growth 
abide like the branch of the tree. You might 
cut Michael Chigwidden down, or chop him 
up — ^you might saw him or plane him — but 
you could never bend him to any other shape 
than that in which he had grown. 

Now of all men the tailor would appear 
the last who could afford such cast-iron ways. 
There are many callings — from the orthodox 
minister to the rag-and-bone merchant — 
where the reputation can be maintained by 
an angry resentment of new-fangled notions. 
The tailor, however, must hold the mirror to 
the changeful ways of human vanity, and veer 
with the winds of fashion as they blow from 
London or Paris. But Michael Chigwidden 
1 86 


Lovers Little Humors. 

was as the rock to the river. Fashions might 
come and fashions might go, but he was not 
borne along by this forthy stream. Rooted 
and firm as the solid earth, he changed not 
with the spring or autumn; he was as the 
yew of which Tennyson sings: 

“ O, not for thee the glow, the bloom, 

Who changeth not in any gale ; 

Nor branding summer suns avail 
To touch thy thousand years of gloom.” 

Such was Michael Chigwidden. 


II. 

The town of West Tamerton, although of 
very considerable importance to those who 
lived there, or within the circling influence 
of its market day, was at least remote and 
leisurely. No railway in those days disturbed 
the wooded valley of the Tamar. Once a day 
the coach went up and down its steep thor- 
oughfare linking it with mysterious regions 
“up the country.” This was the main artery 


Lovers Little Humors, 

of its existence ; there were lesser veins of cir- 
culation in the shape of sundry vans that crept 
to the neighboring towns and villages within 
the radius of ten or twelve miles, apparently 
of much use only on market days. So far as 
news was concerned, West Tamerton lived, as 
the doctors say, on its own adipose tissue, 
found its supply within its own little self. It 
knew everything about everybody else in the 
place, and mostly knew a great deal more 
about other people than they knew about 
themselves. There hung over it a dreamy 
leisureliness as of a land where it was always 
afternoon — except, indeed, on market days, 
when everybody put on a show of bustle which 
so exhausted the energies that it took a week 
to recover. Other days went around like a 
straggling flock of sheep, so similar that you 
could not tell one from another; then came 
the market day at their heels, like a barking 
sheep-dog, and they scampered hither and 
thither in a rush. 

Indeed, it was told that old Diggory Gray, 
away in St. Dunstan’s parish did actually 

i88 


Lovers Little Humors, 

mistake the days, so much alike were they, 
and, somehow losing account of the week, got 
up on the Sunday and thought it was Satur- 
day. He rose at five, instead of seven, which 
marked with him the day of rest, and spent the 
morning in scattering manure over the field. 
Then at eleven he went in for a hasty dinner, 
dressing himself for market between the 
mouthfuls, putting on the clean “bosom” 
and the black tie and the Sunday coat and 
waistcoat. With the big basket of butter and 
eggs on his arm he set out for the walk over 
the moors. But as he drew near to the high- 
way he woke up sufficiently to scratch his 
head by way of gathering his wits together. 
There was a strange and startling stillness 
everywhere. No rattling carts went on the 
road, no hoofs of trotting horses. 

“Whatever is it then?” said Diggory to 
himself. 

He entered the street of the town. No 
cattle stood in its ways, no “stannin’s” choked 
the footpath. The market-house was closed, 
the shops were shut. Not a soul appeared in 
189 


Lovers Little Humors. 

the streets. The very public-houses had not 
opened their doors. 

‘Whatever is it, then?” said Diggory 
again with a gasp. 

Then a slight break of light crept over 
him. 

“Must be a burrin’, I b’lieve, and every- 
body gone to it. Dear, dear! and I never 
heard tell of it, neither: must be somebody 
very important, too.” 

Then came a stout old woman to the door 
of her house, thinking that everybody else had 
gone to church and it was safe for her to show 
herself. Diggory hastened to find some ex- 
planation of the mystery. 

“Here, mother, who is it then?” 

“What ’ee mean?” 

“Why, whose burrin’ is it?” 

“Burrin’; what are ’ee talking about?” 

“Why, it must be a burrin’ — all the shops 
shut up, and nobody about, and market day 
and all.” 

“Market day! Aw, dear, dear! Where do 
you expect to go to, I should like to know, with 
190 


Lovers Little Humors. 

a great basket on your arm, and this here the 
blessed Sunday?” 

Diggory gasped. ^‘Sunday!” 

“Iss, Sunday.” • 

Diggory turned in horror, and in a great 
perspiration. He took off his hat and fetched 
his handkerchief out of it, and wiped his face. 

“Aw, dear! to think I should have spent 
the blessed morning in scattering manure over 
the field, and now I shall have to go home 
and pick it up again, because ’tis Sunday!” 

Happy place, where life was a round of 
such sweet leisureliness! 

Well, seeing West Tamerton was what it 
was, it is easy to imagine the sensation with 
which the news broke upon it one day con- 
cerning Mr. Michael Chigwidden. It was an 
alarm as of fire. Yet not to be told in a hurry, 
but to be lingered over, that the effect of it 
might be more overwhelming. 

It was Martha Toms who carried the tid- 
ings to Betsy Crocker. 

“You do knaw Michael Chigwidden, 
do n’t ’ee?” 


Lovers Little Humors. 

^^Knaw Michael Chigwidden? Iss, of 
course I do.” 

“Michael Chigwidden the tailor, I do 
mean.” 

“Iss, of course. Well, what is it?” 

“ ’T is n’t the old Michael Chigwidden, 
the uncle to ’en?” 

“Of course not; he’s dead.” 

“But it might have been, for all that. I ’ve 
a-heard strange tales of dead folks.” 

“What is it, then?” 

“You never would have believed it, but 
’tis true.” 

“Well, I never!” 

“You might have knocked me down with 
a feather, as the saying is.” 

“Awl” 

“I never thought it of ’en.” 

“Awl” 

“Why, he^s going for to be married!** 

“Never!” 

“And she ’s so staid a female, too.” 

“Dear, dear! Well, there, to be sure ; who 
to, then?” 


192 


Lovers Little Humors, 


“Why, to Petronel Varnicombe, the dress- 
maker. 

“Well, I never did!” 

And each was off in haste to carry the 
tidings to the less informed. 


III. 

How SUCH a matter ever came about was, 
indeed, very much of a mystery. It is true 
that Petronel Varnicombe sat directly in front 
of Michael Chigwidden in church. Thus was 
afforded opportunity for meditation such as 
the occasion is intended to promote; and if 
loftier things did not occupy the good man’s 
mind, possibly it was the fault of the preacher. 
As Michael’s eyes could not fail to see over the 
top of the Prayer-book, they had of necessity 
to look at the figure in front of them. There 
were the clusters of curls that peeped beneath 
the bonnet, tremulously keeping time as she 
joined in the psalms or kneeled for the 
responses. 

13 


193 


Lovers Little Humors, 

The nearness of their pews afforded an 
excuse for a word of recognition that grew 
somewhat suddenly on his part into a tender 
inquiry as to her health. This without long 
delay passed to a handshake; and at last they 
walked together as far as their common way 
or the narrow pavement permitted. 

So it came about that one evening Michael 
Chigwidden got up to close the shop at a 
quarter before eight — a change that implied 
something of terrible seriousness. Then he 
took off the loose carpet slippers, and put on 
his boots. He turned to view himself in the 
glass, giving the flat curls an extra twist and 
patting. He put on his hat, and boldly went 
forth to Petronel’s house. To her it was a 
great astonishment to find that the knock was 
that of Michael Chigwidden. And while she 
expected only some passing message of a 
moment, she was still more surprised when he 
took off his hat and pushed his way into the 
little parlor. 

Whatever passed between them we can 
only guess, but it was enough to set the rumor 
194 


Lovers Little Humors, 

afloat that Michael Chigwidden was going to 
be married to Petronel Varnicombe. Thus 
far they certainly had got. 

Henceforth every evening, however busy 
she might be, even in the all-important matters 
of weddings or funerals, and although it in- 
volved setting to work again as soon as 
Michael was gone, and sticking at it until 
midnight, yet Petronel cleared her room and 
tidied it with utmost care. Every evening, a 
little before eight, she made the fire burn its 
brightest; she set some little dainty on the 
table for supper; she put the old arm-chair 
in the chimney corner; and then quietly 
waited the coming of her lover. 

And every evening, on his part, Michael 
Chigwidden went forth at a quarter to eight, 
and hastily put up the shutters; he changed 
the big carpet slippers for boots that were 
carefully polished; he gave the flat curls on 
either side of his head an extra twist and 
pat. 

As the chimes struck the hour of eight, 
never a minute before, never a minute after, 


Lovers Little Humors, 

Michael boldly came into the dressmaker’s 
little room. The greeting was sincere enough, 
but not enthusiastic, and then two hours 
slipped by pleasantly for both. It was a rest, 
a break, a change, without excitement, with- 
out expectation or claim. Every evening at 
the stroke of ten Michael rose and held out 
his hand, always with the same formula: 

‘Well, Petronel, what do ’ee say, then?” 

The answer was always the same: 

“Aw, Michael, let us bide as we be.” 

The weeks went by, the months, and even 
the years. But amidst the changes they 
brought nothing broke the constancy of 
Michael’s visit. The formula was always the 
same, on his part and on hers. The very 
intonation of each word had grown fixed and 
unalterable. 

It came at last to be said only because it 
had been said, and both would have been be- 
wildered at its omission, and quite as much 
amazed at any change. 

It was after the engagement had lasted 
seven years that a neighbor, anxious to get rid 
196 


Lovers Little Humors, 


of his house and furniture, thought that 
Michael Chigwidden would probably require 
some such convenient dwelling when he took 
to himself a wife. And surely that happy 
event could not fail now to be within measur- 
able distance. 

“Well, Mr. Chigwidden,” he began, as he 
called at the tailor’s shop, “I Ve been think- 
ing about you.” 

“Aw,” said the tailor, “is it a new suit of 
clothes?” 

“No, no, nothing of that sort. I am going 
away, you know, and want to get rid of my 
house.” 

“Well,” replied Mr. Chigwidden, “what ’s 
that got to do with me?” 

“Why, I thought it would suit you very 
nicely.” 

“Me!” cried Michael; “whatever should 
I do with the place?” 

“But I suppose you are going to be mar- 
ried soon, are you not?” 

Michael gasped, his jaw fell, and beads 
of perspiration stood on his forehead. He 
197 


Lovers Little Humors. 

grasped the counter with each hand, as if to 
keep himself from falling. 

“M — m — m — married!” he cried with 
horror. 

“Yes, married,” said the neighbor. 

“W — w — ^w — whatever for?” stuttered the 
tailor. 

“But you are engaged, aren’t you?” 

“Of course I am,” said he, growing angry. 

“Engaged to be married, I suppose?” said 
the neighbor. 

“No,” said the tailor, turning on his heel. 

It took at least an hour for Michael to get 
over the shock, and it was another hour before 
he was able comfortably to sit cross-legged, 
and to resume his stitching. And even then 
he kept breaking out with indignant exclama- 
tions : “M — m — m — married 1 M — m — mar- 
ried! Whatever for?” 

IV. 

It was ten years since the engagement had 
commenced, when Michael Chigwidden, after 
198 


Lovers Little Humors, 

many weeks of deliberation and anxious dis- 
cussions with Petronel, was induced to go to 
London to visit the Exhibition of 1862. Once 
away from West Tamerton, in the midst of the 
relatives with whom he was to stay, there was 
plenty to absorb his thoughts, and Petronel 
found no place amidst the excitement of the 
day. Worn out by the weariness of so much 
sight-seeing, at night he was asleep before her 
name could come into his mind. 

But very different was it for poor Petronel. 
In her loneliness she missed him. Every 
evening, from mere force of habit, she put 
away her work, and she tidied up her room. 
Every evening she made the fire at its brightest 
and cheeriest; she set a place for two at the 
supper table, and put the arm-chair in the 
corner and waited. The clock struck eight, 
but no presence broke the monotony of the 
day. Never did the hours seem so long. 
Never were the evenings so dull. And as she 
thought of him now, it was altogether in an- 
other light. He was not merely a friendly vis- 
itor, but far more than he had ever seemed. 

199 


Love's Little Humors. 

“Ten years!’’ she said to herself; “ten 
years! and his faithfulness has never wav- 
ered, his devotion has never changed — and 
every evening he has asked, and asked in 
vain.” 

She upbraided herself severely for never 
having seen before all that it meant to her now. 
She wondered that she could have withstood 
the claims of such affection. If he were but 
with her now, she almost thought it would be 
impossible to deny him anything. On his 
return she must give him some token of how 
deeply she felt his constancy, how warmly she 
had come to appreciate the devotion he had 
shown through all these years. There was but 
one fitting gift, and that should be his. She 
would at last consent to be his wife. 

A fortnight expired, and Michael was 
home again. Eagerly that night he hastened 
to put up the shutters, and to put on his boots, 
for he had seen much and had a host of things 
to tell. He could not wonder at the warmer 
greeting with which Petronel welcomed him 
as he came into her room. For her to see him 


200 


Lovers Little Humors, 

once more in the easy-chair, and to feel the 
break that his presence brought, restored to 
her life a charm, and completed her determi- 
nation fitly to reward the years of his love. 

The two hours passed more quickly than 
ever. The incidents of the journey to London 
— in those times a rare thing for any person of 
West Tamerton — the sights and wonders he 
had looked upon in the Exhibition, all gave to 
the tailor, in Petronel’s eyes, an added impor- 
tance, almost, indeed, a greatness. 

Then the old church clock chimed the 
hour of ten. Michael did not know it was so 
late, and rose in a hurry. He held out his 
hand, and hastily went through the familiar 
form of words : 

^Well, Petronel, what do ’ee say, then?” 

A new light shone in Petronel’s eyes, the 
glow of a love that was almost a passion, an 
adoration, a great gratitude. Michael waited 
only for the familiar reply, and was eager to 
go. Punctuality had come to be to him almost 
a tyranny. But Petronel held his hand; and 
for a full minute there was a silence in which 


201 


Lovers Little Humors, 

one heard nothing but the ticking of the clock 
in the corner of the room. 

Then she lifted her eyes to his, and even 
ventured what she had never done before — to 
set her arm about his neck. 

“Michael, I Ve been thinking.” 

Michael started and gasped, “Aw, my 
dear!” 

Petronel misunderstood him, and found it 
an encouragment only more boldly to declare 
herself. 

“I Ve been thinking,” she went on, “of the 
years of our love, and devotion.” 

“Never!” cried Michael tremblingly. 

To Petronel still it was only the gladness 
of a man who finds at last what he has sought 
so long. 

“I have resolved to consent to be your 
wife.” 

Michael snatched away his hand and 
thrust poor Petronel from him. 

“N — n — n — never,” he cried, and, without 
so much as staying to put on his hat, rushed 
through the street, and burst in at his door, 
202 


Lovers Little Humors. 

and scarcely felt himself safe, even when it 
was locked and barred. 

It was a long time before he could sleep, 
and even in his slumber there came the mut- 
tered indignation: “M — m — married. What- 
ever for?” 

The next day poor Petronel had no heart 
for anything. She sat with her breakfast 
untasted, utterly careless about her work for 
an hour or more. Some message of urgency 
aroused her at last, and she flung herself 
desperately at the dressmaking, and scarcely 
laid it aside for a moment. The night came, 
and eight o’clock found her still at her work. 
The fire had gone out, and the hearth was all 
unswept. Table and chairs were littered with 
the materials of her dressmaking. There was 
no need now to brighten the room, to set the 
cloth to get something dainty for supper, 
and to wait expectant and eager for Michael’s 
coming. 

But to Michael the day had been a weary 
one. He had taken down the shutters and 
prepared for the day’s work with all his un- 
203 


Lovers Little Humors, 


erring precision. He had sat in his red slip- 
pers, cross-legged, stitching and snipping, but 
his thoughts were with Petronel. He sighed. 
How could he alter the habits of ten long 
years? What was he to do with his evenings? 

That night, as the old church clock chimed 
the hour of eight, much to Petronel’s amaze- 
ment Michael rushed into the little room, and 
sat down without a word. The silence lasted 
for many minutes. 

^Tetronel,” he sighed, “ ’t is no good, I 
can’t live without you.” 

“Michael,” said Petronel, “I can’t live 
without you.” 

“I ’ve been thinking, Petronel.” He 
paused again. 

“Well, Michael,” said she, after a silence 
of some minutes, “what have ’ee been think- 
ing, then?” 

It was a long time before the answer came. 

“Well, Petronel, lev us bide as we be for 
the present, and then, please God, when we 
are dead, we ’ll be buried comfortable in the 
same grave.” 


204 


A BIT OF SHAMROCK. 



A Bit of Shamrock. 


I. 

I HAD gone for a holiday in Ireland. It 
was one day when I was fishing that I made 
the acquaintance of Kathleen. An August 
day with every promise of fine weather. 

I had driven on a jaunting car some five 
miles, intending to fish down to my hotel. 
On every side of me lay a great stretch of 
moor. 

It needs a man to live in London to know 
the full luxury of the country. ^‘Dahn in the 
country, governor, there ’s room for to 
breeve,” a dweller in the slums said one day. 

It is precisely the feeling one has — room 
for to breathe. When one lives where there 
is nothing to be seen but the chimneypots 
opposite, and, by a cruel straining of the neck, 
a glimpse of smoke-stained sky above, it is 
almost as when the pilgrim lost his burden 
207 


A Bit of Shamrock. 

that a man stands under the great stretch of 
heaven, about him the wide expanse of earth. 

Not a sound was to be heard but the note 
of the curlew and the cry of the plover — the 
pluvior, the rain bird, which, I believe, is the 
meaning of the name. On this occasion, at 
any rate, it was a true prophet. Slowly there 
rose great masses of cloud that I knew meant 
thunder. The wind that had blown freshly 
when I started had quite died away, making 
fishing impossible an)rwhere but in the 
“stickles,” as they are called in the West 
country; the broken water swift running over 
the stones or between them. 

But even here my labor was lost; the fish 
were sulky and not to be tempted by any fly 
that I could offer them. I sat on a mossy 
rock, and ate my lunch, hoping to find them 
later in a better mood. My sketch-book af- 
forded me a further entertainment for half 
an hour; then, suddenly, there blazed the 
lightning flash, and like “a whole sea over- 
head” there rolled the peals of thunder. 

Trout, and perhaps fish generally, have a 
208 


A Bit \of Shamrock, 

way of asserting their independence of all 
traditions. That fish won’t rise when thun- 
der is in the air is a doctrine universally 
accepted. 

Years ago I was wandering along the 
banks of a stream in Cornwall when I over- 
took a famous old fisherman — himself as 
rough and rugged as his home-made flies. I 
stopped with the instincts of a brother angler 
to ask him how he fared. He stuck the rod in 
the ground and lifted himself up. The rude- 
ness of his remark I quote from the protest 
of an utter repudiation even whilst I chron- 
icle it. 

‘‘Maister, they ’m contrairy, terrible con- 
trairy — so contrairy as women!” 

It was with some such contrariness that 
the fish were possessed that day. At the first 
burst of the storm up they leapt, greedy for 
the bait, fairly jostling one another, as one 
might say. My creel was full. The air was 
charged with electricity, — whether really or 
no I can not say, but it certainly seemed to me 
that some strange blue light played about the 
14 209 


A Bit of Shamrock, 

metal parts of my rod. Then came the rain 
in huge drops, and in a very few minutes I 
was drenched to the skin. 

The only place of shelter near was a cot- 
tage some quarter of a mile further down the 
river. I hurried on my way and knocked at 
the door. 

It was opened by a woman whose age was 
difficult to tell, but the presence of a little girl 
of some ten years, shyly hid at her skirts, 
showed that she was not old, in spite of the 
deep lines which wrinkled her brow and 
furrowed her cheeks. A fine-built woman, 
with all the distinctive characteristics of the 
Celtic beauty — the jet-black hair streaked 
with gray. But of the face, one seemed to 
see nothing but the eyes, dark blue, shaded 
with long, black eyelashes, and the eyebrows 
a perfect arch. 

The welcome was as prompt as it was 
warm-hearted, and given with the richness of 
the Irish brogue that, unfortunately, I am not 
skillful enough to reproduce. 

I came in and sat by the great fire, on 


210 


A Bit of Shamrock, 

which she piled an armful of turf. It seemed 
to be but one room, with a bed opposite the 
door. A pig and half a dozen lean chickens 
shared with me the shelter from the storm. 

The husband, I found, had gone harvest- 
ing to England, but as she spoke of him I 
caught a tone of sorrow in her voice, and there 
came a troubled look into her eyes. 

“Ah,” I said, “I hope he brings you home 
money enough to keep you for the winter.” 

“Ach, yer honor,” said she, “and he would 
if it were not for those about him. Niver 
a better man walked the earth than Pat Kil- 
coyn if he were only let alone. But thim 
that ’s with him is just tirrible for the dhrink, 
and it ’s 'no' that he can not say whin they ’re 
along wid him and his earnings is in his 
pocket. When we were first married we had 
just a sight of things to make a woman’s 
heart proud, but they ’ve gone one by one. It 
fairly broke my heart to part with the brass 
bedstead that had been my mither’s own. And 
there was Barney — blessed Barney.” 

Now it was that in the light of the peat- 


211 


A Bit of Shamrock. 


fire, for the storm had darkened the air, I was 
struck with the pathetic beauty of the little 
girl’s face. I had made friends with her, so 
that she had forgotten her shyness. I had bid- 
den her bring a broken dish on which I set 
three or four trout. She leaned at my side 
greatly interested in turning the leaves of my 
fly-book. At the mention of Barney’s narne 
she stopped, lifting up her face to mine and 
taking my hand in hers as if assured that I 
should share her sorrow. 

^‘And did you love Barney, Kathleen?” I 
asked, for that I found was her name. 

The great blue eyes that were fixed on me 
melted into tears, the lips quivered, and she 
said nothing. 

^^Ach! an’ she did that, yer honor,” said 
the mother, ^‘for Barney loved her like a born 
brother, ’^ou could fairly hear him laugh if 
she as much as spoke to him, and if she was 
away he looked as if the very sowl of him was 
gone.” 

I wondered who Barney could be to whom 
the drink had brought such ill. 


212 


A Bit of Shamrock. 

'^And who was Barney?” said I; “and 
what was the rest of his name?” 

Then through Kathleen’s tears there 
flashed the sunshine of her humor. 

“It was only the donkey,” Kathleen 
laughed with the tears on her cheeks, “but 
shure and I did love him.” 

“The poor baste,” said the mother; “to 
think we should have had to part with him 
through the dhrink.” 

“Have you any other children?” I asked. 

In a moment the mother drew herself up 
proudly, her eyes shone with a new light, and 
going towards the bed, she opened a chest and 
brought out a photograph carefully wrapped 
in a piece of newspaper. 

“Shure, and that’s our Peter,” said she, 
“and the Holy Virgin be praised, for he ’s just 
the jewel of a boy.” 

“And where is he?” I said. 

She evidently was glad to have the oppor- 
tunity of dwelling upon the matter. 

“Ach! and yer honor, the holy apostles 
themselves, not one of them, was ever more to 
213 


A Bit of Shamrock. 


a poor mother’s heart than my Peter has been 
to me. More like an angel than a boy, for all 
he was the merriest sowl that ever laughed, 
and could hold his own with the best of them. 
His lessons was lamed that perfect, he was 
always the top of his school, and his riverence 
had a kindly pat for his head, and he would 
put his hand under his chin and lift up the 
pretty face of him to himself and say, ^Shure, 
and ye Ve got your mother’s eyes,’ sez he. 
Sez he, ‘You ’re a broth of a boy, and if you 
stick to your books,’ sez he, ‘and grow up as 
good as you look,’ sez he, “I ’ll be after 
a-making a priest of ye,’ sez he, ‘and what 
will your mother say then?’ sez he.” 

“Where is he now?” I asked. 

“Shure, and he ’s at college a-larnin’ all 
sorts of wonderful things, and I ’m afther 
dreaming they ’ll be making a bishop of him 
one of these days, yer honor.” 

The storm had cleared, and I rose to go. 
I had left the place, gladly handing some 
little acknowledgment to the good woman, 
which she refused to take for a while, and I 
214 


A Bit of Shamrock. 

had at last to leave it on the rough dresser and 
hurry away. 

I had not gone far before I heard a laugh 
close behind me, and turning round almost 
startled, I saw little Kathleen with her bare 
feet trotting at my side. She took my hand 
and danced and laughed for half a mile 
or more. 

^^Now, Kathleen,” I said, “you must not 
come further, you know; your mother will 
think you are lost.” She lifted her eyes and 
looked at me a moment as if in protest, then 
they shone again with merry humor. 

“Och shure thin, yer honor, will ye prom- 
ise one thing if I go back home now?” 

“Certainly I will,” I laughed, wondering 
what her request could be. “What is it, 
Kathleen?” 

“That ye ’ll come and see us agin.” 

“Of course I will,” I said. 

She kissed my hand and then was away 
with a run and a laugh. I had gone some 
hundred yards down the valley, when I heard 
a shout. She had climbed a rock at the bend 
215 


A Bit of Shamrock. 

of the moorland path and stood on the sum- 
mit, her skirts blown about the little bare legs, 
and her dark hair flying about her face, and 
she was waving a farewell with her hands. 

11 . 

It was three days afterwards when I drove 
up to the head of the river again. No sooner 
was the jaunting car in sight of the cottage, 
than Kathleen came bounding to meet us. In 
a moment she sprang up at my side without 
waiting for the car to stop; her long limbs 
seemed able to jump anywhere, and were 
made to skip and dance, and anything else 
except to keep still. 

^‘O, honor!” she cried, ^‘dear honor,” for 
this was the name by which henceforth she 
knew me. ^ What a long, long toime ye Ve 
been.” 

And again her lips were on my hand. 

I called at the cottage with a little present 
of tea for Mrs. Kilcoyn — such tea as I knew 
the Irish folks prefer, for there is nothing 
216 


A Bit of Shamrock. 

about which your Irishman or Irishwoman 
is more fastidious. I have been told that the 
most expensive teas are sold in Russia and 
Ireland. 

^^Oi ’m glad yer honor has come,” said she, 
^^for the little one has been hungering for the 
sight of yez. She has spent ivery hour of the 
day wandering up and down the banks of the 
river, and it was as much as I could do to 
fetch her in to her dinner.” 

“I am sure I am as glad to see her,” I said, 
as I felt her grasp tighten at my hand, for she 
had never once let it go, and the merry blue 
eyes were lifted up to me with the glow as of 
the sun itself. 

The jaunting-car had gone back, and I was 
left on the river-side with Kathleen. We sat 
side by side on a mossy rock and shared our 
lunch. 

‘‘Now, Kathleen,” I said, “I have got a 
present for you. It’s in my fishing basket. 
Can you guess what it is?” 

She said nothing, only looked at me with a 
great wonder. 


217 


A Bit of Shamrock. 


I had written to a friend in Dublin to buy 
me a doll, meaning only some bright-faced 
creature of the Japanese tribe in gay apparel. 
But there had come back a Saxon lady in the 
latest of Parisian fashions, and attired as a 
bride, with layers of dresses that I understood 
would take off, buttoned and tied and hooked 
and eyed; a white satin dress, so the ladies 
told me at the hotel, befrilled and belaced at 
neck and arms. A pearl necklace adorned 
her, and even bracelets as if of gold were 
on her wrists ; and in a little box were other 
garments in which she was to rest at night 
when the great staring eyes were tightly 
shut. 

Kathleen sat in perfect silence, with a gasp 
of wonder. Never had she possessed before 
a single plaything; and now it was as if the 
round world itself and all that therein is had 
come into her possession. 

I left her and had gone on with my fishing, 
and it was nearly an hour later that I saw her 
at my side. 

honor!” she cried, “dear honor!” and 
218 


A Bit of Shamrock. 


then sat down again to look afresh at the won- 
ders of her gift. 

Once more I left her, and after another 
long interval she came bounding to me. ^‘You 
have forgotten one thing,’’ she cried. 

“What is that, Kathleen?” I said, afraid 
she had found something lacking in the gift. 

“Shure and ye have not told me the name 
of her.” 

“O, I have not thought of that,” said I; 
“let me see, what shall it be?” Then I re- 
membered a huge wooden idol worshiped in 
former times by my own little ones at home, 
than which father and mother were scarcely 
more dear, whose name was Joan. 

“Come,” I said, “I think I ’ve got the 
name that will do,” and I sat and told her 
the story of my children, and so the gift was 
named Joan. 

A few minutes afterwards I looked round 
and Kathleen was gone. I concluded she had 
hurried on to show it all to her mother, and 
did not give the matter another thought until 
I chanced to look back, and saw the doll and 
219 


A Bit of Shamrock. 

the box beside it carefully set on a stone. 
Some time afterwards, Kathleen, breathless 
with running, stood on the bank. 

‘‘O, honor, dear honor!” she cried, for I 
was wading in the stream, “will ye come here 
for a moment?” 

As soon as I stepped out of the water, she 
drew me down towards herself with one hand, 
holding the other behind her back. Then she 
lifted the other hand and put in my button- 
hole a little bit of shamrock. She flung her 
arms about my neck. 

“O, honor, dear honor!” she cried, and 
the tears shone in her eyes. “I love yez, I 
love yez, and I pray God every night to send 
His holy angels to take care of ye wheriver 
ye are. And night and morning I ’ll tell Him 
about ye in my prayers. O, honor, dear 
honor!” 


III. 

When next I went that way I really 
thought less about the fishing than about 


220 


A Bit of Shamrock. 

Kathleen, for she had won her way into my 
innermost heart. 

My excursion this time lay up to a moun- 
tain tarn, some three miles beyond the point 
which I had reached before. 

I was no sooner in sight of the cottage than 
I saw the pretty little figure, barefooted and 
bareheaded, come dancing along to meet me. 
Again she sprang up at my side, her hand in 
mine. 

This time there was no word of greeting, 
only a look of great gladness that filled all 
her face. 

I feared to tell her of my errand, thinking 
that it was quite impossible for her to accom- 
pany me on my long walk to-day. Little by 
little I broke it to her, but there was no shade 
of disappointment. The distance was nothing 
to her; she was going, that was certain, wher- 
ever it might be. I called at the house to tell 
the mother, and found it a difficult thing to 
get away again. 

“Och, yer honor,” said Mrs. Kilcoyn, 
“what ye Ve done for Kathleen ye niver can 
221 


A Bit of Shamrock, 


tell. May God bless ye for the music ye Ve 
brought to the sowl of her. It ’s just a dream 
of beauty that ye Ve given to her day and 
night. And every evening when she kneels at 
my side to say her bit of a prayer she tells the 
Holy God in heaven about ye, and asks Him 
to send His angels to guard ye, sleeping and 
waking, wheriver ye are.” 

It was a happy day, one of the happiest of 
my life. I waited whilst Joan was undressed, 
and the night things were put about her. 
Then Kathleen had given her a kiss, and told 
her to be good. 

“Your little mother,” said she, “must go 
away with dear honor for the day, but she ’ll 
come back to ye afore the day is done, and, 
maybe, bring ye a trout for your supper that 
honor, dear honor, maybe, will give ye if 
ye ’re good.” 

And she looked round at me, her eyes flash- 
ing with sly humor. Away we went hand in 
hand, up the steep climb, resting on our way 
now and then whilst I took out my sketch- 
book, and drew a rough picture of the land- 


222 


A Bit of Shamrock. 

scape about us, and gave it to her, paid a thou- 
sandfold by the look of her love and the merry 
laugh — ‘‘O, honor, dear honor, I love yez.” 

Then we reached the little lake where fish- 
ermen were rare, and the fish, untrained in 
the ways of the wicked world, had learned no 
suspicion. I gave her my rod, and showed 
her how to cast the line, and the place rang 
with the music of her joy, as again and again 
she brought the spotted trout to the shore. 

^‘That’s for Joan’s supper, you know, 
Kathleen,” I said, as she caught her first. 

Again we came down the hillside, she 
gayly prattling of Peter, her brother, how 
good he was, and of how she loved him, and 
how that he was going to take care of his 
mother and herself that they should want for 
nothing; and how great he was going to be. 
So we reached the cottage. 

Mrs. Kilcoyn was standing at the door. 
The postman had brought that day a letter 
from her son, and she held it open in her 
hand. Kathleen knew what it was, for no 
one else ever sent them a letter. 


22 ^^ 


A Bit of Shamrock, 

‘‘Shure and yer honor,” said the mother, 
^^and would you loike to hear the letter that 
my boy, my Peter, has sent to his mother? 
Look at the handwriting of him, did ye ever 
see the like? And the way that he sez him- 
self — it’s foine.” 

Kathleen had run and given Joan a kiss, 
and whispered some words of praise for being 
so good, and then came back to my side 
whilst the mother slowly read the letter from 
Peter. 

It told how that they were going to have 
a bazaar for the church, that each of the 
students had promised to make some contribu- 
tion, and Peter was afraid that he would 
have nothing to give. His mother had noth- 
ing, he knew, and Kathleen still less, indeed 
if that were possible. And so with a pathetic 
helplessness he told his trouble, seeking rather 
their sympathy than their help. 

When the letter was finished, we sat in 
silence, I wondering whether there were some 
little gift that could be sent from me in their 
name. 


224 


A Bit of Shamrock, 

Then I felt Kathleen’s hand slip from 
mine. 

The light had gone out of her face — her 
eyes had a strange and far-away look. 

She crept away to the door, and I saw her 
slowly pass the window. 

A quarter of an hour later she came back, 
her eyes were red, there were marks of tears on 
her cheeks. She went to the bed, and took the 
doll, kissing it tenderly. She dressed it in all 
its finery, staying now and then to look at it 
and to kiss it again. She carefully folded all 
she had taken off, and put it into the little box. 

Then she came to my side, her lip quiver- 
ing as she spoke. ‘^You won’t mind,” said she. 

I saw, of course, what it meant, and could 
answer nothing. 

She drew herself up and flung back her 
head, and taking the doll from the bed she put 
it in her mother’s lap. Her lip was bitten ; no 
word was spoken. Then Kathleen was gone. 

A little later I rose to leave, begging Mrs. 
Kilcoyn’s acceptance of some gift to send to 
her son, and went on my way. 

1 3 225 


A Bit of Shamrock, 


I had gone some hundred yards or so from 
the house when I came upon Kathleen lying 
with her face to the ground in the long grass, 
sobbing, heart-broken. I laid my hand upon 
her shoulder, and she sprang up in a moment. 

^^Shure and it ’s over now,” said she, ‘‘and 
I ’m all right.” 

I sat down and took her on my knee. 
“O, Kathleen,” said I, “I do n’t know what 
to say or to do.” 

“O, honor, dear honor,” said she, “you 
do n’t mind, do ye?” 

“Mind, little one,” said I with a choke in 
my voice, “I think it is splendid of you — 
splendid.” 

“I knew ye would not mind, O, honor! 
dear honor,” said she. 

“Shall I give you anoher?” I ventured to 
whisper, timidly. 

She was silent for awhile. Then came the 
far-away look again in her eyes. Presently 
she bent and kissed my hand. 

^'There can never be another,^* said Kath- 
leen. 


226 


DICK BRIMACOMBE’S 


WEDDING. 


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Dick Brimacombe’s Wedding. 


I. 

It was Uncle Abe who married them. 
You see, there was nobody else to do it; and, if 
there had been, the young folks would just 
have stuck to Uncle Abe. Whether you 
wanted to be christened, or married, or buried, 
you always sent for Uncle Abe; and when 
folks were sick or in trouble, you would be 
sure to sec Uncle Abe’s buggy standing outside 
the door — and a rough kind of thing it was, 
for Uncle Abe had to be his own carriage re- 
pairer, if not carriage builder, and there was 
very little of the original left. He made his 
own harness, cut from a cow hide. Everybody 
did that much — felled the timber, and built 
the house, and roofed it with shingles ; but it 
was Uncle Abe who could mend your furni- 
ture, and set your plow right, and cure your 
aches, and cobble your shoes, and held that 
229 


Dick Brimacombe^s Wedding, 

nothing was worn out so long as it could be 
kept together by a bit of leather or a strip of 
bark. 

He lived in what was then counted the 
backwoods of Canada, a place now as civil- 
ized as any old-fashioned town at home, where 
the latest advertisements cover the walls, and 
the latest fashions fill the drapery stores, and 
three daily papers recor^ the latest news or in- 
vent it, as the case may be, availing themselves 
of the opportunity of contradicting it all in 
to-morrow’s issue. But in the forties of the 
last century it was a wild spot, where there 
were so many wolves that nobody could keep a 
sheep. The old folks still tell how that, look- 
ing out of a window on a frosty night, they 
often saw a pack of wolves leaping over the 
logs and sniffing about the place. Here it was 
that a few hardy settlers had made a clearing 
and built each his wooden shanty. And here 
they lived their lives, rough and hard, but 
healthy and happy; and, however little they 
owned, it was all their own, which made it 
so much. 


230 


Dick Brimacombe^s Wedding. 

Uncle Abe was not exactly a minister. He 
never gave up business, and no man amongst 
them worked harder. His enterprise under- 
took much more than the care of his farm. 
He put his yoke of oxen to the wagon and 
drove ninety miles to Hamilton, carrying the 
skins that he had purchased from the trappers, 
and bringing home such things as tinware and 
earthenware, shoes and saddlery, stoves and 
drapery goods, which were collected in a 
lean-to at the side of his house, where the cus- 
tomers might call and get what they wanted. 

A busy man indeed was Uncle Abe. In 
the springtime every maple-tree was tapped 
for sugar, and everybody in the family went 
hurrying to and fro with pails, and poured the 
luscious liquid into the boiler that stood in the 
clearing, or staid a moment to thrust a log 
into the fire to keep the pot boiling. In a good 
season he made as much as a thousand pounds 
of sugar, and sold it in exchange for wool, 
which the women of those days could card and 
spin and weave into blankets and shawls and 
dresses. 


231 


Dick Brimacombe^s W edding. 

Now it was partly, perhaps, because he 
was so busy a man, always about hither and 
thither, that they gave him so much more to 
do. Partly because of that, but mostly because 
everybody knew him to be a good man. He 
was big and strong and utterly fearless, fear- 
ing God and then fearing nothing and nobody. 
Hard and narrow, it may be, in the view of 
some, when he found the evil doer, but all 
kindness and goodness when he came to deal 
with the sick and suffering. So it was that 
he was ordained a deacon in the Methodist 
Episcopal Church. He gathered the scat- 
tered population together in house or barn for 
preaching services. He baptized the babies, 
and married the couples, and buried the dead, 
and preached the funeral sermons, and did as 
much good as any Right Reverend Father in 
God. Payment for his services was mostly in 
kind. The sweet sentiment of lovers whose 
bliss was consummated by marriage found a 
grateful acknowledgment in the gift of a bear 
skin, and the peaceful burial of some old saint 
was requited by the skin of a wild wolf. 

232 


Dick Brimacombe*s Wedding, 

This was Uncle Abe who married Dick 
Brimacombe to Jessie MacDonald, and al- 
though they have all passed away, there stands 
to this day the maple-tree under whose 
branches the bride and bridegroom stood on 
that memorable day. 


11 . 

Dick Brimacombe, they said, would never 
marry; he was not a marrying man. That he 
was thirty-five years old, and had not sought a 
wife, was quite enough to settle the matter in 
the minds of the maidens who met at church or 
on the few and simple occasions when the set- 
lers gathered at some festivity. He had come, 
a little lad, with his father and mother from 
the West country at home before he could re- 
member. Indeed, there was but one memory 
that filled his boyhood’s days ; beside that all 
else was lost, behind that nothing else seemed 
to lie. 

It was one day in winter, when he was 
some twelve or thirteen years of age, that he 

233 


Dick Brimacombe^s Wedding. 

had gone with his father into the woods to 
fetch the logs for fuel, a thing sorely needed 
where the cold often sank below zero. Dick’s 
work was to drive the horses home with the 
load on the sleigh, and merrily rang his voice 
and the crack of his whip in the still and frosty 
air. On one of these journeys, as he drove 
along the rough track, a wolf ran from the 
bush and galloped snarling at his side. The 
horses, terrified, rushed madly away, and Dick 
had to hang on with all his might to keep from 
being flung ofif. The beast kept trying to leap 
upon him, and sprang, hideous with bloodshot 
eyes and open mouth from which the specks of 
foam flew as it ran, every now and then snap- 
ping its cruel teeth madly. Then suddenly an 
arrow from an unseen hand fled straight at the 
beast and killed it instantly. An Indian to 
whom they had shown some kindness had 
caught sight of it, and thus saved the lad. It 
was a mad wolf that had broken away from 
the rest of the pack and roamed by itself — a 
creature far more fierce than any other, since 
the venom of its madness meant that the least 

234 


Dick Brimacombe^s Wedding. 

touch of its teeth — and some said even the 
scratch of its claw — meant certain death, and 
that perhaps the most terrible death that a 
man can die. 

The Indian hastened to tell the father of 
the son’s peril and escape, and as they re- 
turned together to the place where the dead 
wolf lay Dick joined them. 

^Well,” said the old man, when he had 
heard the story from both of them, and given 
the Indian all the tobacco he had, “we will 
have his skin, anyhow. He shall do some good 
now he is dead, which is more than he did 
when alive. The boy shall have that for his 
own.” 

Taking out the knife that hung from his 
belt, he proceeded to skin the beast. But he 
was all unmindful that his hands were 
chapped with the cold. It cost him his life. 
A fortnight later he died of hydrophobia. 

From that hour the boy became a man. 
His was all the hard work of the place ; his the 
burden of anxiety in the struggle to live. And 
bravely he carried his load. Utterly absorbed 

235 


Dick Brimacombe^s Wedding. 

in his work, he grew old before his time, and 
as he passed through the years of his early 
manhood life had no room for sentiment, no 
leisure for love, except in the tender care and 
unceasing devotion which he showed to his 
mother. 

The life of those days in those parts was by 
no means lacking in opportunity for courtship. 
No hired help could be had then, and the 
neighbors gathered at each other’s houses in 
turn to lend a hand at all that required any 
extra help. And on such occasions Dick 
Brimacombe came gladly enough to do his 
share of work. There was a Raising-bee, when 
a man wanted to put up a barn, and every 
neighbor brought a horse or a yoke of oxen to 
drag the timber and then help to put it in its 
place. There was a Logging-bee, when they 
gathered to bring the logs to the fire, and made 
ready the potash, the only thing for which they 
got paid in cash; all else was a matter of bar- 
ter. There was the Paring-bee, when they 
made ready the apples and pumpkins for win- 
ter use. 


236 


Dick Brimacombe^s Wedding. 

Such occasions were always finished by a 
great supper, at which as many as fifty or sixty 
guests would gather, and this was followed by 
all kinds of merry games. Then they drove 
home in wagons or sleighs. But Dick Brim- 
acombe seldom staid to supper, and never 
to the merry-making afterwards. There was 
nobody else to see to the cows and to set things 
right for the night, and his mother sat by the 
lonely fireside; so before anybody knew it he 
was gone. Little wonder the maidens had 
come to think of him as not a marrying man. 

But old Mrs. Brimacombe had died, and 
there had come changes that quickly told on 
Dick. The evenings were long and lonely as 
he sat now after supper when the day’s work 
was done, and there was nobody to cook his 
victuals and to see to his buttons. A hundred 
discomforts began to meet him which only a 
woman’s hand could set right, if he could but 
find the one that suited him, one who could do 
all these matters as his mother had done. 

The chance soon came, and Dick took it 
eagerly. It was at a Paring-bee, where the 

237 


Dick Brimacomhe^s W edding. 


neighbors for half a dozen miles around had 
come together to pare and prepare the apples 
for the winter. It was as pretty a sight as one 
could wish to see — the men busy picking the 
ruddy apples from the trees and filling the 
baskets, then emptying them in piles where 
the groups of maidens sat laughing and chat- 
ing merrily, one skillfully peeling the apples, 
another quartering them, whilst yet another 
threaded the pieces with a needle on a fine 
string some yard or two long, these later to 
festoon the kitchen and thus be dried for win- 
ter use. The fallen leaves of the trees already 
littered the orchard, whilst the maple stood 
ablaze with gold and deepest crimson hues. 

Amongst the girls was one more quiet than 
the rest, to whom Dick Brimacombe brought 
his basket more than once, and then lingered 
watching her hands as skillfully and swiftly 
she pared the apples. If it had been any other 
of the men, there would certainly have been 
some laughing pleasantry about it, but it was 
only Dick, and nobody took any notice of him 
— nobody, that is, except Jessie MacDonald 
238 


Dick Brimacombe's Wedding, 

herself. She, seated on the ground, her lap 
full of apples, turned her head and met the 
eager look of Dick, and at once had read the 
secret. With a blush on her cheek, she bent 
her face low down and went on more busily 
with her work. 

Then Dick flung himself down at her side. 
“Let me help you,” he laughed, and taking an 
apple out of her lap, he began to eat it. The 
others looked; but there, it was only Dick 
Brimacombe, and he did not count from a 
girl’s standpoint. 

The early supper was over, and all were 
taking part in the games. Dick, unused to 
games and awkward at merry-making, had 
strolled away into the orchard again. The 
great harvest moon was rising over the distant 
woods. Presently he caught sight of Jessie 
leaning against a fence watching the moon 
rise. He little guessed how hardly she was 
trying not to think of what filled all her 
thoughts. His coming startled her. He was 
at her side before she had caught sight of him. 
For a few moments they stood in silence. 

239 


Dick Brimacombe^s Wedding. 
want to have a Paring-bee,” said 

Dick. 

Jessie said nothing, only turned her head 
towards him, hoping that he had not seen the 
blush that filled her face, and glad to notice 
that he was looking at the moon. 

‘‘I guess it would be a new kind of Paring- 
bee, too.” 

Jessie looked up with a questioning 
wonder. 

“I am only going to ask one — a sort of 
Queen Bee,” Dick went on. 

Jessie’s eyes fell, and she grasped the fence 
nervously. 

‘‘And when she comes I want her to stay 
and see the apples dried, and then to cook 
them, and help to eat them too.” 

Jessie beat the fence timidly with her foot. 
Then Dick slipped his arm in hers. “Jessie, 
will you be my Queen Bee?” The little hand 
slipped into Dick’s big ones. For a minute 
there was silence, except as the crickets 
chirped in noisy chorus ; but Dick heard the 
words, almost whispered, “Do you mean it, 
240 


Dick Brimacombe^s Wedding, 

Dick?” Then he sealed the bargain with a 
kiss, and it was settled. 

“We shall have to be quick about it,” said 
Dick, as they came to the house again. 
“Apples won’t keep long this season, I ’m 
afraid. 

So Dick iBrimacombe was going to be 
married. 


III. 

It was within a very few weeks of the 
Paring-bee that there came the wedding. 
There was no need for delay, and Dick 
thought there was much need for haste; so 
they had seen Uncle Abe and fixed it all with 
him. They had got the license, and the day 
was fixed when at the nearest little church the 
friends were to gather and the marriage was 
to take place. The autumn had passed into 
the early winter, and there had come a great 
storm of wind and rain. All night the wind 
blew, and all night the rain pelted. Dick 
slept soundly as only a tired man can; but 
i6 241 


Dick Brimacombe's Wedding, 

Jessie lay awake half the night listening to 
the roar of the blast in the woods, moaning 
and howling, and to the beat of the rain. 
How could she get to church in the simple 
finery in which she was to be decked? And 
then a new horror seized her. What if the 
river were swollen, and Uncle Abe could not 
cross to marry them? She slept, but it was 
only to dream that she was being swept 
away in some fierce torrent in which Dick 
struggled vainly to save her. The day broke 
with dull, heavy clouds on every side ; no sign 
of any clearing was there, and the rain came 
down with a steady and persistent beat as if 
it would never cease. Later, they met at the 
church, the bride and bridegroom, with a few 
of her friends. Dick had no relatives that he 
knew of in the world, and was his own best 
man. 

But there was no Uncle Abe. The wind 
roared about the little church, then went howl- 
ing into the woods like a thing in pain. In 
gusts the rain beat on the window panes. The 
little company sat waiting in silence, when one 


242 


Dick Brimacombe^s Wedding, 

came into the church with the news that Uncle 
Abe was on the other side of the river and 
could not come across. The stepping-stones 
were buried several feet below the raging 
flood. There was no chance of any wedding 
to-day. They must go home again and wait 
until the flood was over. 

“Never,” said Dick; “we’ll manage it 
somehow.” 

Forth went the bride and bridegroom to 
the bank of the river, where Dick set Jessie 
in the shelter of the big maple-tree and then 
called across to Uncle Abe. 

The rush and roar of the torrent was the 
deep bass to the howl of the wind, and it was 
difficult for him to hear his own voice as he 
shouted, “What’s to be done, Uncle Abe?” 

“Nothing, I guess, my son,” said Uncle 
Abe. “I ’m just awful sorry. I should have 
to go miles up the river before I could cross it, 
and it would take me all day.” 

“Dick,” whispered Jessie, close at his side, 
“ask him if he can’t manage it standing over 
there.” 


243 


Dick Brimacombe^s Wedding. 

“Say, Uncle Abe,” bawled Dick with all 
his might, “can’t you do it over there?” 

“What?” shouted Uncle Abe, and Dick 
had to say it over again before it was 
heard. 

“I do n’t see how I can,” and Uncle Abe 
scratched his head. “I can’t marry you with- 
out the license.” 

“Dear, dear!” said Dick, helplessly. 

“We can manage the license all right,” 
said Jessie. “Take your handkerchief and 
put a big stone in it, and the license, and you 
can fling it across.” 

“That ’s just grand,” said Dick. “I should 
never have thought of that,” and a minute 
later the thing went flying across the river to 
Uncle Abe. 

“Well, we can try it anyhow,” roared the 
deacon, as he came to the brink of the river 
and stood in the pelting rain. “Come as near 
as you can.” 

So the service began. Now the words 
rang out clear and distinct as in a church, 
then again nothing could be heard. But 
244 


Dick Brimacombe^s Wedding, 

Uncle Abe struggled on with his part, and 
Dick was not to be beaten. 

^‘Say after me, Dick,” roared Uncle Abe, 

know not For a moment it was use- 

less to struggle with the roar of the storm. 
Then he began again, know not any just 
cause ” 

Dick got safely through his part, but it 
was in vain that Jessie tried to make her voice 
heard across the river. 

can’t hear,” roared Uncle Abe, leaning 
across the surging flood, and holding his hand 
at his ear. 

‘^She said it right enough,” yelled Dick. 

“We heard her,” said the little group about 
the maple-tree; “we can swear to that.” 

There was a pause, and the whole matter 
seemed in peril. Then Uncle Abe roared 
across to them, “Hold up a hand, my dear. 
I guess that will do under the circum- 
stances.” 

And up went Jessie’s hand. 

“Dick Brimacombe, wilt thou have this 
woman to be thy wedded wife?” cried Uncle 
245 


Dick Brimacombe^s Wedding. 


Abe, and then stood listening, his hand against 
his ear. But there was no need for that. Dick 
put both his hands to his mouth, and in a tone 
that might have defied Niagara’s thunder, 
roared, ^7 will!" 

^^Guess Uncle Abe heard that right 
enough,” said the group to each other with a 
smile. Then Uncle Abe began again. 

‘‘Jessie, my dear, it ’s your turn now. Can 
you hear?” Jessie nodded her head. 

“Jessie MacDonald, wilt thou have this 
man to be thy wedded husband?” But it was 
in vain that poor Jessie tried to get her words 
across. 

“She says she will, right enough,” said 
Dick, impatiently. 

“But I ’ve got for to hear it,” cried Uncle 
Abe. 

“Let her hold up her hand,” pleaded 
Dick. 

“Well, then, Jessie, my dear, hold up a 
hand if you mean it.” 

“Hold up both,” whispered Dick. 

“You ’ve got hold of one,” said Jessie. 

246 


Dick Brimacombe^s Wedding, 

“Well, I ’ll hold up this one, and you hold 
up the other,” laughed Dick; and up went 
both Jessie’s hands high in the air. 

“Have you got the ring?” cried Uncle 
Abe. 

“Here it is, Uncle,” Dick roared, holding 
it up. 

“Well, put it on. Jessie will show you 
the finger.” 

“All right. Uncle Abe. What next?” 

“Hold it there, and say after me ” 

Now it was whilst Dick’s hands were busy 
in this part of the ceremony that there came a 
violent blast, which sent Dick’s hat flying be- 
fore it and dropped it into the surging stream. 
It was Jessie’s old aunt who flung a big black 
shawl over Dick’s head and accidentally cov- 
ered them both. 

“All right,” roared Uncle Abe. “That 
will do.” 

And Dick took the opportunity, whilst 
hidden in the shawl, to give his wife a kiss 
that sealed the wedding, as a kiss had sealed 
the engagement. 


247 


Dick Brimacombe^s Wedding, 

4 . 

‘‘God bless you, my children,” said Uncle 
Abe, as he crawled into his buggy. “I guess 
you ’re tied up all right.” 

“Thank ’ee. Uncle Abe; I’ll owe you a 
bear skin,” roared Dick. 

“Come and see us soon,” said Jessie, but 
the words failed to get across the river. They 
were lost in the roar of the flood and the howl 
of the storm. 


248 


THE PUNCH AND JUDY 

MAN. 



















The Punch and Judy Man. 


He was an old man. The long practice 
of his work had left his voice cracked ; whilst 
exposure in all winds and weathers had 
brought on bronchitis, and he wheezed and 
coughed as he told his story. 

The pan-pipes were lying in the window. 
In a corner of the room a green box was 
open, where Judy sprawled with an arm and 
leg over the side ; the baby, with a huge white 
cap, was on its back staring with great eyes 
at the ceiling. A whiskered policeman lay 
face downwards, whilst in another corner 
Punch, with a leer of satisfaction, sat bolt 
upright. 

Old and worn, like his master, Toby thrust 
a cold nose in my hand as I sat and listened. 

^Tf I knows anything at all I knows the 
British public, and what I says is this — 

251 


The Punch and Judy Man. 

amoose your public, and your coppers is there, 
more or less, for a dead certainty. But titch 
their morals and you ’re up a tree before yer 
knows where ye are, so sure as eggs is eggs. 
I knows what I ’m a-talking about, for I went 
into the moral line myself once, and never did 
a wuss day’s work. 

“It was all along of a coorate — a nice sort 
of a chap he were, for he and me come to be 
a bit friendly arterwards. Wide-awake, too, 
and, as I told him once, he could ’ave got 
along in my line of business if he ’d a mind 
to — and a prettier compliment I could n’t pay 
the king, not if it was his coronation. 

“It was back years ago when they was 
beginnin’ to put up schools for the kids. I 
was only a young chap myself, and had n’t 
long started in the Punch and Judy line. 
Well, this ’ere coorate had got some children 
in a shed, a set of wild gels and boys. He 
managed to tame ’em a bit, but the school- 
pence was the trouble — they were mostly 
missing, with some of the children anyhow. 
He did n’t want to send them away; ’specially 
252 


The Punch and Judy Man. 

as he could n’t prove that the kids ’ad a-stolen 
them. 

“It was in his trouble he turned to me. I 
was a performin’ one day down the Highway, 
when I sees through a hole in the canvas 
that I keeps a purpose for peepin’, a parson 
in the crowd a lookin’ on enjoyin’ it as much 
as anybody else. Well, I ’d picked up the 
coppers and tucked up the show when this 
here coorate comes up along side o’ me. 

“ Well, Governor, what do you want?’ 
says I, with a grin. ‘Do you think I could 
draw a congregation some fine Sunday 
mornin’P I’m game if you can secoor the 
patronage of the nobility and clergy for my 
’umble show. I could give it a religious turn 
for a consideration, and to oblige. Come ’ere, 
Toby,’ I says, for he was inspectin’ the coo- 
rate’s legs suspicious like. 

“Says ’e, ‘I want you to do something of 
that sort, not in the church, but in the school. 
I will make it worth your while, say ’arf a 
crown,’ says ’e. ‘Come down next Wednes- 
day arternoon, and I will give you a list of 
253 


The Punch and Judy Man, 

names of children that I sispect of stealin’ the 
school-pence, and you can put in a word or 
two that will cure them,’ says he. 

“ ‘All right. Governor,’ says I, and I 
chuckles to myself with a sort of pride that I 
and my show was a goin’ into the moral 
line. 

“Well, the day come, and there I was, 
punctual as Big Ben. It were a sight to see 
them kiddies all took up in the show, never 
a-suspectin’ the bomb-shell that was a-goin’ 
to be let off among ’em. You could hear the 
peals of laughter a-ringin’, and they with 
their eyes a-starin’ wide and their mouths 
open for to let out all the laugh that was in 
’em. Then up comes Judy with the baby in 
her arms. I thought I ’d begin gradual like, 
so I peeps out of the little hole in the canvas, 
and, after Judy had sung a bit of a song, says 
I, ‘O, you are just a nice little, pretty little, 
dear little, good little baby you are — the 
image of your par and mar.’ 

“Then I gives a solemn pause and puts on 
the moral, ‘When you are big enough, you 
254 


The Punch and Judy Man, 

will go to school/ says I, ‘won’t ye, and you ’ll 
learn your lessons beautiful!’ says I. Then 
slow and solemn says I, ^you'll never steal 
your school-penceT 

“I was sorry for the kids, I tell yer. There 
came a hush over ’em that yer might have 
heard a pin drop. A fair half turned quite 
white and peeped round to see if anybody 
were lookin’ at ’em. The coorate stood bolt 
upright and went on laughin’, like as if he 
did n’t sispect nothin’. 

“Well, the show was done — and I made it 
special strong and long for their benefit, put- 
tin’ in every song I could think of, besides a 
hextra ’arf hour of patter. When they 
thought it was all over, up jumps Punch again 
with his stick in his hand.” 

As the old man spoke he leaned over to 
the box and took Punch up and fixed the big 
staff firmly in the wooden arms. 

“I ’ll show you. Governor, how I done it. 
Ye see, I ’d got their names on a piece of 
paper.” 

In the familiar, squeaking voice of Punch, 

255 


The Punch and Judy Man, 

that rang out harsh and shrill, he went 
through the list of names. 

^Teter Jones! whack — and down came the 
stick and up came Peter Jones, white as a 
sheet and all of a tremble — you could see the 
perspiration on his forehead. William Rob- 
inson, whack — down came the stick again, and 
he came a-draggin’ himself along. Harry 
Smith, whack — and poor Harry come 
gaspin’. 

^‘So come ten of ’em, all in a row in front 
of the stand. Then to make a sort of a flour- 
ish, I put in cetera, cetera — Punch lookin’ 
round the place and cornin’ down with a 
couple of whacks. Blest if there were n’t six 
others whose names were n’t down at all that 
come up and stood alongside of the rest. 

“Then Puncb he puts on all his tones so 
solemn as a judge. ‘Boys and gels,’ says ’e, 
‘you ’ve just seen a man hanged by the neck 
till ’e was dead! dead!! dead!!!’ Once more 
the stick came down with a terrible whack. 
‘That man began his downward career 
a-stealin’ of his school-pence. And, boys and 
256 


The Punch and Judy Man, 

gels, if you ever steal your school-pence 
again, you will every one of you be hanged 
by the neck till you are dead! dead!! dead!!! 

“The coorate tipped his ’arf crown and 
says Well done,’ says he, and I goes on my 
way very well pleased with the arternoon’s 
work. But it were the worst job I ever did. 
I met him six weeks after, and says I, 
^Coorate,’ says I, ‘you ’ve a-ruined my busi- 
ness for me. I never show my face in a 
street but every boy and gel takes to their 
heels as hard as they can go. Says they, 
‘That there man ’ave a-got in his box some- 
body that knows everything yer ever did.” 

“Yes, I knows the British public if I 
knows anything. Amoose ’em and their cop- 
pers is there — but titch their morals, and they 
are froze solid.” 


17 


257 




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.:: \ ■ /Vi ST v;.^;U 3 MM ■ 





Down in the Country. 


“I SAY, Missus, we must go down in the 
country and see the kid.” 

The woman started and stared. It was n’t 
much he cared for the poor little girl, kicked 
and cuffed by him when drunk, as he often 
was, and half-starved because of what he 
spent in the public-house. 

^What do you say. Missus?” he asked, 
wondering at her apparent reluctance. 

To her it was difficult just then to find any 
words to speak of it. 

Down in the country. She knew it well. 
It was where they both came from, and she 
saw instantly the little house with its garden 
amid the brightness of the flowers and the 
singing of the birds. 

The man had taken out his pipe and filled 
it, and now with the match in his fingers, he 
261 


Down in the Country. 

all were in such utter contrast with the coarse 
surroundings of their home. 

In the doorway of one of the cottages stood 
their little girl, her face beautiful with the 
gladness she had found, and now she came 
running down the garden path to meet 
them. 

‘‘My!’’ said the man, almost with a gasp, 
“ain’t she pretty!” 

They came in and sat down, but the man 
was restless and uncomfortable. He ate little 
and said less, and seemed in a hurry to get 
back to town again. His wife wondered that 
he sat in such silence that night at home. 
Presently he rose and paced about the one 
room in which they lived. There was a 
strange new tone in his voice as he spoke, “I 
say. Missus, we must try and make her miss it 
as little as we can. We can do the place up a 
bit,” and his eyes went over the floor and 
along the walls. 

Next night he came home from work 
bringing with him a parcel. 

“I Ve been thinking about the kid,” he 
264 


Down in the Country, 

explained, “we ’ll put this over the bed. It 
will help to make it look a bit better,” and he 
shook out a white coverlet and set it tenderly 
over the rags in the corner. 

Then, taking off his coat, he set to work, 
mending here and patching there, whilst his 
wife took up the coat and began to patch and 
to mend that. 

“I ’m going to make her miss it so little 
as she can,” he said, as he drew himself up, 
proudly admiring his own handiwork. The 
wife, for her part, was glad enough to fall in 
with the proposal, and did her share in a 
score of ways, until the place was quite 
transformed. 

On the Saturday he came home straight 
from work. “Now, Missus,” he cried, “we ’ll 
have our tea, and then we ’ll go out a-market- 
ing.” They bought a hearth-rug — a splendid 
specimen covered with cabbage roses — large 
and red as a setting sun. Then two or three 
cheap pictures that they picked up from a 
stall, and these adorned the walls. 

“My!” said he, as he looked about the 
265 


Down in the Country. 

place, “she won’t hardly know it.” And then 
there were touches added here and improve- 
ments made there. 

The day the little one was to come home 
they went out and bought a fuchsia in a pot; 
they had never bought a flower before. It 
was evening when the child returned. They 
stood waiting for her in such finery as they 
could afford, and which they thought befitting 
the occasion. The little one stood and looked 
at them both in amazement. Then she came 
into the room and gazed about her. The 
hearth-rug, the white coverlet on the bed, the 
fuchsia on the table, the pictures on the wall, 
the supper so nicely set out, all filled her with 
wonder. “Whatever have you been a-doing 
of,” she cried, “it’s ’most so pretty as down 
in the country.” 

The man sat down, and there was a bit of 
a choke in his voice. “Little ’un, come here.” 
He put his arms about her; he had never 
done it before. He kissed her, awkwardly, 
for he was out of practice, but he did it. 
Then he explained, “You see your mother 
266 


Down in the Country. 

and me wanted to make you miss it all so 
little as we could.” 

So came a breath of the country, like the 
breath of God’s own love turning ^‘Little 
Hell” into a little heaven. 


267 
























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